


Carving the Rose

by Lupinewings



Category: Backstrom (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Violence, long!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 32,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupinewings/pseuds/Lupinewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much Niedermayer whumpage. </p><p>After he and Valentine are kidnapped and he is tortured, Niedermayer assures his teammates he's fine. Even Backstrom has no idea how dark Niedermayer can be. After all, smiles can hide anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“Valentine?” Gregory Valentine blinked sleepily. The smell of disinfectant filled his nose.

“Backstrom? Where am I?” “Hospital.” Backstrom’s craggy face came into focus.

“You have a concussion. Bet your head aches.” His fingers brushed Valentine’s temple.

“Ouch! What else?” Valentine jerked away. “You have a few bumps and bruises but otherwise, you’re all right.” Backstrom handed Valentine a glass of water and Valentine drank it slowly. “Thanks,” he said. He sat up and his head throbbed. “Ow.”

“I’ll call the doctor.”

“Do I look all right?””

“A little beat up but fine.”

“Is my doctor a man? Is he cute?”

“How the hell would I know? You’re gay, not me.” Valentine felt his lips quirk into a smirk. Backstrom stood up. “I’ll be back later. Rest.” He paused, looked at Valentine oddly. “Good job.” He left.

Valentine drew his brows down. “What?” The doctor swept in. Cute but pompous and Valentine pursed his lips. He allowed the doctor to check his vision and squabbled over the order to stay overnight.

“Do you remember what happened?” the doctor asked,peering at Valentine curiously.

“Not really.” Valentine rubbed his head. “It just hurts.” “I’ll order some painkillers. Rest.” True to his word, Valentine soon found himself pain free. Time passed hazily, him waking several times to find blurry figures beside his bed. He smelled Backstrom’s cigar once, later Niedermayer's soap. Still no memories returned, just dark fog. Much later, he heard Backstrom’s strident voice and stretched, the headache now a dull pain. Backstrom came in, looking disgusted. “I need a shower. And I am starving,” Valentine said.

“You can shower and eat at home. Moto will be there.”

“I can eat and shower by myself.” Valentine got out of bed.

“Moto stays.”

“Why?”

“I’m not giving that crazy another shot at you.”

“Which crazy?” Valentine began slowly dressing.

“The one who grabbed you.” Valentine started. “You really don’t remember?”

“No, I don’t. The doctor said it’s common.” Valentine frowned at his greasy hair. “Shower first.”

“Come on.”

“I need my prescriptions filled.”

“Already done. Come on.” Moto drove them home.

“Why not Niedermayer?” Valentine asked.

“Because he’s useless,” Backstrom snapped. “Moto can fight.”

“Fine,” Valentine said, surprised at his brother's vehemence. “Look, order some food OK?”

“You have a phone, remember?” Backstrom said. “And no going out.”

“Fine.” He showered, studying the dried blood on his wrists. He washed away the blood, surprised not to find cuts, only small abrasions which looked familiar and aches in his wrists that were definitely familiar. Those were pains from being tied up. He scrubbed himself clean. When he emerged from the bathroom, dressed in jeans and t-shirt, he smelled pizza. “You hungry Moto?”

“No, thanks,” Moto said. “I’m here to watch you and stop anything from happening. Otherwise, and I quote, ‘I will be skinned alive and fed to grizzlies’, unquote.”

“OK,” Valentine said, flopping on the couch.

“Good job.”

Valentine looked at him. “OK. Ah, what job?”

“The escape. Smart move,” Moto said.

“OK,” Valentine said.

“I have some packages for you.”

“Great.” Moto brought in an armful of packages. Valentine happily pounced on the packages like a five year old in Christmas. There were chocolates from Gravely, a case of beer from Moto, a gift card and brownies from Almond, a bottle of wine from Paquet, and an antique book of poetry and a very fine bottle of wine. A note dangled from the bottle. _Please let me know you’re all right_. He flipped the note over. The handwriting looked familiar, like Niedermayer’s, but it was sloppy. “Who sent this?” he asked.

“No idea,” Moto replied. Valentine ate and watched TV. He took his painkillers and finally fell asleep on the shabby sofa. “

_"You can do this, Valentine.”_

_“Easy for you to say.”_

_“Just twist a little more. The rope should be loose by now.”_

_“Peter, I can’t.” Soft dark eyes._

_“You can.”_

_“This is crazy. I can’t do this.”_

_“You can. You’re faster than him or me, smarter, stronger.”_

_“But…”_

_“You can do this, Val. I know you can.”_

Valentine woke with a scream.


	2. Chapter 2

“What?” Backstrom burst in.  “It’s 5:30 AM.”

“Peter!  Is Peter all right? Did he get away?” Valentine scrambled up.

“Peter who?  Niedermayer?  Are you talking about Niedermayer?”

“Is he OK?” Valentine tried to swallow his terror. He still smelled blood, felt the cold of the room seeping into his bones.

“He’s fine,” Backstrom said.  “Christ. Just relax.” He touched Valentine’s shoulder.

“I need to see him.”

“I don’t know why.”

Valentine began dressing, dimly realizing he was in his bedroom.  “I’ll go see him myself.” He yanked on jeans, shivered. Backstrom sighed.

“God damn it, we’ll both go.  Just wait a minute.”

“He was with me,” Valentine said. “He was captured,too.”

“Yes, I know.  Do you remember now?”

“Yes,” Valentine said. “Some. Hurry!”

Grumbling, Backstrom dressed.  “He’s all right, Val. Just calm down.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. We’ll go see him. Let’s grab coffee.”

Valentine drove them, first to a coffee shop, and then towards the hospital. “Where are you going?” Backstrom asked.

“The hospital.”

“Niedermayer's at the station. Or he damn well better be.  He’s supposed to be running through surveillance videos.”

Cold filled Valentine. “What?!”

“Pull over.  Tell me everything.”

Valentine pulled over, sipped his coffee which did nothing to melt the ice inside him.  

_"Valentine, I’m fine.  Breathe. We’ll both be all right.” A warm body driving away the chill as it pressed on him. Smell of blood, semen, and burned flesh meshed together, smells he never wanted to smell together again. A pounding skull and someone talking to him with a quiet voice, forcing him to pay attention. Choked screams from another room._

A hand grabbed his arm, brought him back as he heard his own harsh breathing. “Valentine, look at me.  Talk to me.”

“What did Pet--Niedermayer say?” Valentine shot Backstrom a terrified look.

“You were both taken prisoner.  You were tied up and after three days you escaped.  He was cut up and you had a head injury.  Worst part was the cold. You got loose, ran to call us.  Then you passed out. Niedermayer was on his feet, dressed when we got there. ” Backstrom watched him. “Is that what you remember?” Backstrom had dealt with victims before, seen the anguish and terror first hand. He hated it, hated the feelings of helplessness that always came. And this was Valentine, his brother, a man he loves even if he can’t admit. Part of him wanted to kill, right now, to erase that look of panic in Valentine’s face.

Valentine looked at him, trembling. “He kept me warm,” he said, swallowing hard.  “He kept me sane, Backstrom. And he should be in the hospital.  He was hurt. I never saw how bad.  It happened in the other room.”

“I’ll check on him,” Backstrom said.

“I want to see him.”

“We will. He may still be in bed. You all right?” Valentine gulped coffee and nodded. At the station, Backstrom set Valentine to looking at pictures.  “I’ll send Niedermayer your way in a few minutes.  He’s fine.”

Early or no, the team was there. In the office, Moto, Almond, Gravely, and Paquet stood by the photo board.  Niedermayer perched on his desk, studying photos and the board.  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said without looking.  The others looked over.

“Morning, Niedermayer,” Backstrom said. He saw a pile of files on Niedermayer’s desk and a sketch on the board. “What’s new?”

“Nothing yet.  Just cases I think may be related.”  The dapper sergeant looked exhausted, a grey tone to his skin.  “No fingerprint hits yet.”

“A serial killer case?” Almond said.

“Serial abuser.  I am looking for similarities.”

“Did you finish the videos?” Backstrom asked.

“Yes.  Still waiting on the museum’s. Nothing struck me, sorry.”

“These cases have fire in them,” Paquet said, tapping a file.  “I recall reading about some of them. Ours has none of that.”

“All the others took five to seven days,” Niedermayer informed. “Valentine and I escaped on the third day.”

“Valentine saved your ass, you mean,” Moto said with a smirk. Niedermayer nodded.

“That he did.”

“Are you all right?” Gravely looked at Niedermayer.

“Cuts, bruises.  I went to the doctor.”

“Looking forward to that report,” Backstrom said. Indeed, he itched to read it. Niedermayer looked at him fully.

“Sorry, Lieutenant, HIPAA laws,” he said with a sunny smile. “I have a medical release note.” Backstrom scowled.

“Any restrictions?”

“No,” Niedermayer said.

“If you want workers compensation,” Gravely started.

“This wasn’t work related,” Niedermayer cut her off.  “I wasn’t on duty.  My medical records aren’t important.” He stood up, walked to the board.

“He can do that?” Backstrom asked Gravely.

“Of course he can. We can review his records if he allows us and only then. His doctor released him.”

“The records aren’t important.” Niedermayer said again, looking at them.  He glanced at the sketch of the suspect.

“Glad you’re OK,” Backstrom said sarcastically.  He gave Niedermayer a hearty slap on the shoulder. To Backstrom’s horror, Niedermayer buckled, almost went to his knees but grabbed the back of a chair and straightened up.  The team stared.  

“I did say I was bruised,” Niedermayer said in a pained voice, looking at Backstrom.  “That is one of them.”

“A bruise sends you to your knees?” Almond asked.

“I wasn’t prepared.” Niedermayer inhaled.  “Be right back.” He walked slowly to the break room. Valentine stood there, eating a doughnut, frowning at the coffee.  Niedermayer paused and watched him for a moment, relife pplain on his face.

“I’m fine, you don’t have to stare.” Valentine looked at him. “Wow. You look like shit.”

“Tired, that’s all.” Niedermayer opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water.  From his coat pocket he pulled out a bottle and shook out two pills.

“Vicodin?”

“Related.” Niedermayer took the pills, gulped water.  “Did you get painkillers?”

“I did.”

“Good. You should be resting.” Niedermayer leaned against the counter, conserving strength.

“Is that an offer?” Valentine’s lips curved into a smile. He sauntered to Niedermayer, grabbed his tie.  “Silk.  Classic.”

“Thanks.” Niedermayer’s face softened as he smiled at Valentine.

“Why are you here?” Valentine went from flirty to furious. Niedermayer sighed.

“My case.  I am not giving this up.”

“You lied to Backstrom and the others.”

“I didn’t lie,” Niedermayer refuted.  “I just didn’t tell him everything.”

“Oh, I am so using that against you,” Valentine warned.  

“I can’t be tossed off this.  I saw a doctor, got a medical release.” His voice hardened. “This is important to me.”

Valentine gazed at him for a long moment, reached up and brushed Niedermayer’s hair from his temple, a daring move that he never thought to try before. Niedermayer almost sagged into the touch and Valentine felt him shiver  “Who is your detail?” Valentine asked.

“I have none.  I’m the cop, remember?”

Valentine gently removed his hand, pleased Niedermayer looked disappointed at that. “When he comes back, he’ll come for you.”

“I know,” Niedermayer said with a small, sad smile.  “But I’m usually with cops.  I’m safe.”

“You can be my detail,” Valentine offered.

Niedermayer shook his head.  “Backstrom stated no.  After all, I already let you get abducted once.” His gaze went to the floor.

“What?!”

Valentine’s shriek drew everyone’s attention and Niedermayer winced.  “He’s right, I should have moved quicker, seen him coming…”

“Before or after we were tasered?!”

“What is going on?” Gravely hurried in.  She grabbed Niedermayer’s arm.  “Niedermayer, what…?”

Niedermayer closed his eyes and counted his breath as agony flew through his nerves.  “Let go,” Valentine ordered, grabbing Gravely.  “Now!”

Niedermayer kept counting. As he hit one hundred, he opened his eyes.  His vision sparkled.  “Niedermayer?” Gravely asked in a low tone.

“Excuse me.”  Niedermayer staggered to the bathroom, locked the stall door behind him. Vomiting followed by long, painful dry heaving drained the last of his strength and he grabbed the stall wall to hold himself up.  He flushed, unlatched the door, and washed his face at the sink.

“That bad, is it?” Valentine walked toward him, face still.

“I am sore, yes.  I’ll be OK.” Niedermayer gave a shaky smile.  “Thank you for checking up on me.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you to the doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“Sorry, your boss says you do.” Valentine rolled his eyes.

Niedermayer’s jaw tightened.  “That man has no call to say I need a doctor.”

“You are just as stubborn as he is.”

“Had to learn something from him.”

“Are you going to hide in the bathroom all day?” Backstrom’s voice could be heard through the door.

Niedermayer calmly walked to the door and walked to Backstrom. “I went to the doctor.  I gave you a release note.”

“Get me another.” Niedermayer’s lips pressed together for a moment then he nodded. “Hold on, I’ll go with you,” Backstrom said.

“I am capable of going to my doctor…”

“Shut up.  Valentine, will you drive?”

“Sure.”

The doctor’s office was in a shabby part of town with an equally shabby decor and clientele to match.  “Seriously, Niedermayer?  Our insurance is better than this.”

“Dr. Wright is capable.” Niedermayer spoke quietly to the receptionist.  She nodded and checked her computer.  Within moments, Niedermayer’s name was called.  Niedermayer disappeared into the back.  Backstrom looked around the office.

“Huh.  I have friends who come here,” Valentine said quietly.  “I hear she doesn’t ask a lot of questions.” Backstrom nodded.

“Great.” Backstrom prowled the tiny front office then opened the door to the back.  

“Sir, you can’t go back there,” the receptionist exclaimed.

“I’m a cop.” Backstrom walked down the hall, hearing Valentine behind him.  The smell of medicine, soap, and disinfectant filled the air and the hum of the lights added to the din of nurses and receptionist talking. He spied a closed office door.  Distinct voices could be heard, a female and Niedermayer’s soft baritone. Backstrom opened it. The middle aged woman in a white coat stood by a topless Niedermayer, sitting on the table.

“Get out,” the doctor ordered.

“Christ, Niedermayer, this is a bit more than a few cuts and bruises!” Backstrom stepped into the room.

Niedermayer ignored Backstrom, looking directly at Valentine.  “It’s not so bad.”

“Stop lying.” Valentine ground the words.  Niedermayer dropped his eyes.  “You should have said something!”

“We needed escape.  You are fast, nimble, smart. And I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

“I’m not a child,” Valentine spat.  “I don’t need protection.”

“You’re a friend.” Niedermayer looked earnestly at Valentine, ignoring both doctor and Backstrom, an almost pleading in his tone. _Please listen to me_.  “No one should have to go through this, much less twice.”

“You are an ass. I have seen worse than this.” Valentine stared coldly at Niedermayer.

“Get out of this room before I call---” the doctor started, trying to regain control.

“Dr. Wright, it’s ok.  Lieutenant Backstrom is the police.  He’s my supervisor.  And Valentine is my friend.  Just finish, please,” Niedermayer said.

Backstrom studied the damage on Niedermayer’s back.  “Only you, Niedermayer, could be captured by someone who would carve and burn flowers on you.” Roses had been carved, literally gouged, from Niedermayer’s flesh, some burned, some coated with some odd dye. A weird leafy vine snaked across his back. “Jesus.”

Niedermayer kept watching Valentine. The younger man breathed in slowly and laid a hand on Niedermayer’s left arm, touching the fresh bandage. “This the one that was cut, right?”

“Yes.”

The doctor still stared at Backstrom.  “Are you done ogling my patient?”

“Not by a long shot, lady.  And don’t get so huffy with me.  You okayed this man to work and that is pretty rotten doctoring.  Not to mention I could probably clear up half my crime list if I had your patient roster.”

“I insisted, Backstrom,” Niedermayer said mildly, finally turning to his boss. “I am good to work.”

“Valentine, can you take a photo of his back?”

“Fine.”

Niedermayer sat patiently while the doctor sprayed something on his back and then carefully laid an enormous gauze pad across his back. She taped it and then handed Niedermayer his shirt.  “Dress,” she ordered. “Here’s your work release note.Check with me in a few days.  Those burns may need debriding.”

“Are you joking?” Backstrom exclaimed. “He can’t work.”

“Yes I can, “ Niedermayer said.

“Shut up,” Backstrom ordered.

“Follow me, Lt,” she said.  She stormed out with Backstrom following.  

Valentine helped Niedermayer button his shirt.  “I’ll go home for a clean one,” Niedermayer said.

“How did you know I’d been captured before?”

“I do read files,” Niedermayer said. He looked embarrassed. “I read all the teams’ files.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“I was curious.”

Valentine actually smiled at the chagrined sergeant. “Huh, just how curious, detective?”

Niedermayer groaned but smiled.

Dr. Wright took Backstrom to a small office and closed the door.  

“Detective Niedermayer is released for work.  He’s fine medically.”

“He’s been etched and carved into some weird ass painting and you think he can work. What kind of doctor are you?”

“My son is on the streets, a drug addict.  Like your friend back there, he’s young and pretty. Peter Niedermayer came to me knowing I would release him because, as he pointed out, this crazy targets the young and pretty.  Niedermayer is needed to find him.”

“So screw Niedermayer and his injuries, right?”

“Yes,” the doctor said through gritted teeth. “Screw Peter and you.  I would sacrifice all of you to keep Nathan safe. He can work. He’s incredibly healthy, strong, has a high pain threshold. Plus, he wants to work.”

“Well, at least we know where you stand, doctor.” Backstrom left, slamming the door. He found Niedermayer and Valentine in the front office.  “Let’s go.”

In the car, Valentine took the keys and slid behind the wheel. “I need to go home,” Niedermayer said.  “If you would. I’d like to change clothes.”

“When did you last eat?” Backstrom asked.

“I’m..” Niedermayer stopped at Backstrom’s look. “A long time ago.  Let me change. Please.”

“Fine.”

Niedermayer’s apartment, sparse and clean, smelled of incense.  A few bookcases overflowed with books and while there wasn’t a lot of furniture, what was there was comfy and cozy. Art pieces decorated various surfaces.  “Nice,” Valentine said.

“Thank you. Have a coffee.  I’ll be right back.”

Valentine darted to the nice espresso machine and began making drinks.  “Should we order a pizza?” he asked.

“Get Chinese.” Backstrom opened the refrigerator. “No beer? God, nothing but rabbit food.”

“Oh, this is delicious. We need one of these, Backstrom.”

“Then buy one.”

“I’ll just come over here for cappuccino.”  Valentine walked to the sofa, carrying two mugs.  “Here.” He handed a mug to Backstrom.

Niedermayer appeared in the doorway, wearing a clean shirt and suit. “Sit. We’ll order chinese,” Backstrom ordered.

“You want to eat here?” Niedermayer asked.  “OK.” He pulled several menus from a kitchen drawer.  They ordered and Backstrom turned to Niedermayer.

“Start talking.”

Niedermayer gazed at them. He then glanced away. “Sir…”

“Now, Niedermayer.”

A sigh, a hard swallow. “We were both tasered.  We woke tied up in a very cold apartment.  I assumed it was an abandoned building. When our captor came out, I got his attention and he focused on me.”

“How?” Backstrom asked.  

“He spoke in french,” Valentine said. “I remember that. ‘The best canvas and most incredible paint won’t make a poor artist great.’”

“What the hell?  How did you even know he spoke french?” Backstrom demanded. "And you don't speak french."

“The art show was about french artists,” Niedermayer explained. “It would be logical to assume he liked french artists and many people spoke french at the show. I speak a little and Valentine knows phrases.”

“And you and Valentine just showed up at the same show and he picked you two?”

“We are tempting together,” Valentine said, reaching out and tugging Niedermayer’s tie.

“Stop it,” Backstrom said, glaring at Valentine.

“I don’t know why he focused on us. Maybe because Valentine and I were discussing a painting.” Niedermayer frowned.

“Really?  This is how you spend your time?” Backstrom said.

“I like art,” Valentine retorted.  “Like you. You're not the only one with a good eye."

“I meant Niedermayer.”

“I love art,” Niedermayer said in surprise. “You know that. I go to exhibits and shows all the time.”

“Of course you do.”

“So I drew his attention. And well, he started working on me.  Valentine escaped and saved us.” Niedermayer said, looking around his apartment. “That’s all.”

“You suck as a storyteller,” Backstrom snapped. “How about some details?” Niedermayer shrugged and got up as the doorbell rang.  His hand dropped to his gun.  He opened the door cautiously but came back with bags of Chinese food.

They ate. When they were done, Backstrom looked at Valentine. “Take us to the station. Then I’ll send Moto with you.”

“I’m not the one the crazy wants.  That’s Niedermayer.”

“You need a detail,” Niedermayer said in alarm.

“All right, geez.” Valentine rolled his eyes. A warm feeling filled him at both Backstrom’s and Niedermayer’s worry.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

At the station, Backstrom sent Valentine home with Moto and then gathered the rest of the team. He pinned the photo of Niedermayer’s back to the board. Paquet took one look and wheeled on Niedermayer. “You did not tell us this!” She pointed to the photograph.  “This is not cuts and bruises!”

“I’m fine.” Niedermayer held up his hands as the team all turned. Backstrom settled back to enjoy the storm.

“This isn’t fine,” Gravelly snapped, jabbing the photograph.  “This is torture! And evidence! Why didn’t you say something?”

“I have been treated and medically released.  It looks worse than it is.” 

“That isn’t the point, although I doubt that,” Almond said.  “You should have said something. How do we trust your forensic skills?”

“I think my record speaks for itself.” Niedermayer looked insulted. He glanced at Backstrom.

“Do you honestly think you could be objective?”  Almond asked. Niedermayer  turned and looked at him solidly.

“Yes I do.” All the team looked at Backstrom and Gravely.

“No jury would accept that,” Gravely sputtered. “You can’t be involved.”

“This is my case,” Niedermayer insisted.  “I understand better than anyone. Backstrom, what are you doing?”

  
“These are Skinartist files,” Backstrom said, lifting the files from Niedermayer’s desk.  “You believe this is your captor?”  _You better be wrong._

“It’s possible,” Niedermayer said evenly. “I’m connecting certain dots.”

“Tell us,” Backstrom said. Inside he shuddered. The Skinartist. Notorious serial killer that very few outside law enforcement knew about. He’d read a little on the cases and they sickened him.

“He can’t be involved,” Paquet insisted with flashing eyes.

“Lovers spat?” Backstrom asked. Both Niedermayer and Paquet glared at him.

“We are not lovers,” Paquet retorted.  “We are close friends. This is stupid.”

“None of this is in your statement,” Gravely said as Backstrom filed Paquet’s comment away in his mind. “How do we explain this?”

  
“Let’s go back to the Skinartist files.” Backstrom sat down. “Connect the dots for us, Niedermayer.”

Niedermayer nodded. His weariness fell away as he began, pinning photos on the board. “I got the files shipped in from the FBI, stating I was doing research. The Skinartist torture killings started about eight years ago from what we can establish. Started on the East coast in Maine. He’s moved across the country, selecting various cities. I noted in all these cases, the Skinartist has selected pairs. Usually males, twice females, once a male and female pair. He seeks artistic types and keeps them 5-7 days, torturing them during that time by cutting and carving their flesh into artistic endeavors.  He started by replicating masterpieces,  The Starry Night by Van Gogh in Edna Swanson, Vase with Twelve Sunflowers on Roger Swanson.” Niedermayer handed Backstrom more photos.

“Great. Sick bastard.” The others drew closer.

“He began doing his own work in kill three. Usually nature--carvings of trees, flowers. He expanded to rubbing paints into the cuts and also using a handheld torch, like the ones used for creme brulee, to burn interesting patterns plus dry the blood. And increase his satisfaction at his victim’s pain, I imagine.  At kill 11, must have been very proud of his work as he removed the skin off Parker White’s back.  I think it is possible he tanned the skin and still has it. There are 18 deaths attributed to the Skinartist that are known.”

“Oh my god,” Gravely said with a paling face.

File by file, Niedermayer outlined his notions on the case, his eyes brighter than they’d been all day. Backstrom listened with deepening appreciation. At least Niedermayer knew his work. He brought up corresponding point after point. As he finished, he said “It is not definite but I think they are related.”

“Problem.” Almond said. “All these cases involve sex.”

“I am thinking that comes at the end of the captivity.” Niedermayer said.

“If this is true, we need to call the FBI.” Gravely steadily stared at Backstrom. "And you need to rewrite your statement, Niedermayer."

“It’s possible, not definite,” Backstrom said.

“He’s right,” Niedermayer said.  “This is all theory at the moment. It’s very possible I’m wrong or this is a copycat.”

"He carves roses on your back," Almond said. "That's pretty unique."

“Incredible work,” Paquet said. "Even though you should be at a doctor's office."

“Thank you,” Niedermayer said, smiling slightly. 

“Yes, nice,” Backstrom said, knowing he was going to end the feel good moment. “Go work on the MIller case.”

Dead silence. Niedermayer stared at him. “This is my case,” he said, disbelief in his voice.  “If I’m right,...”

“If you’re right, you have let us know there is a possible serial killer in our area. Good work. You are off this case. You are involved and any work you do on this case will be suspect. You’re the victim, remember? Since Valentine doesn't remember a lot, it's all on you.”

“I understand the concern but I can do this.” Niedermayer looked around at the team, obviously seeking support.

  
“The Lieutenant is right,” Almond said. “If you’re right or wrong, you can’t be involved in your own case.”

“My work…”

“Is fine but would be suspected by everyone,” Paquet said in a gentle tone.

“The Miller case really could use your help,” Gravely said encouragingly.

Betrayal and disbelief filled Niedermayer’s face. He inhaled.  “Miller case,” Backstrom said, cutting him off.

“Sir…”

“Now, Niedermayer!”

Niedermayer nodded. “Fine. It was only a theory. I’ll take the files.”

“The theory is sound,” Gravely said., placing a hand on the files. “We’ll investigate it.”

“It’s not the theory, Niedermayer,” Almond said sympathetically. He reached out to touch Niedermayer’s shoulder but Niedermayer moved aside.

“It’s you,” Backstrom said bluntly.  “Paquet, let start on the files. Niedermayer, leave your notes.”

Niedermayer inhaled and strolled towards the  file room. “Rewrite your statement,” Gravely called. “Oh, yeah, that went well,” she said.

“Damn. Maybe he does believe all that don’t get angry crap,” Backstrom said in surprise. “He’s still not mad.”

“You’re doing this to piss him off?” Gravely demanded.

“Of course not,” Backstrom snapped. “It’s just a bonus.”

Paquet frowned, disturbed. “You should talk to him,” she said to Backstrom.

“He’s a grown man, not a five year old. Or he’s supposed to be,” Backstrom said. “He can deal with a little disappointment.” Yet he twitched, unusual feelings of guilt filling him. It did feel wrong what he’d just done. He’d ridden Niedermayer nasty and hard the past four days because of what had happened to Valentine and now--well, Niedermayer’s back twisted his stomach.

“It is a huge case,” Almond said. “If he’s right…”

“If he’s right, he did his job,” Backstrom said gruffly. “Now let’s research this.”

The team busied themselves. Moto joined them soon after. “Who’s watching Valentine?” Backstrom asked.

“Jackson. Where’s Niedermayer?”

“Miller case,” Gravely said. “This is actually his case but we’re taking it.”

“Our case,” Backstrom corrected..

“If he’s right and this is the Skinartist, he deserves the credit,” Gravely said.

“The bad guy is the objective, not who found what.”

“The Skinartist--the serial killer?” Moto asked. “Hey, I read about him. He was in Kansas last I read.”

Anders, a forensic man, came over to Backstrom. “You wanted me, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, Niedermayer isn’t on this case. Look at the photos.”

“All right.” Anders looked at the photos of the recent crime scene. “Huh. Niedermayer left notes here.”

“I know that. Tell us what you think.” Backstrom rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Pretty clean for a torture area.  Is this what was done?” He tapped Niedermayer’s photo.

“Yes,” Paquet said.

“Wow.  Who is it?” Anders looked over his shoulder.

“Just tell us what you see,” Almond said patiently.

“If these are gouges, where’s the flesh and blood?  Many people would be in shock, so if the victim stayed conscious, was he or she covered with a blanket?  Just stronger? I imagine the victim was shackled. The perp didn’t want squirming.  I’m not sure about the color.  Paint?  Dye?”

“Christ,” Backstrom said. “We’ll get those details.  Look at the scene, Anders. Give us ideas.”

“Check under the table,” he said.

“Already done,” Paquet said. “it was bleached. No fingerprints.”

Anders studied the photos.  “Were the victims swabbed?  Did we find any hairs on them, any skin under their nails?”

“We have their DNA,” Backstrom said. “We got a few hairs.”

“They gave us descriptions,” Almond added.

“Blood by the window, a fair amount.  Victim's?”

  
“Yes,” Gravely said.

“Odd that wasn’t cleaned.”

Backstrom listened but Anders had a lot of questions. “Gravely, get Niedermayer’s statement, let him answer these questions.”

Gravely rolled her eyes but left. When she returned, she said “He’s gone home.”

“What?”

“He’s been here since 11 PM last night, working. Davis said he went home.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Niedermayer meditated, trying to release his rage and hurt, to regain balance he sorely needed. Afterwards, he looked at his phone, chewed his lip and then sent a text to Valentine.

_Are you all right?_

An immediate response. _I’m ok. Where are you?_

_Home. Need to rest some. Be careful._

_You too. Get some sleep._

_Thank you. See you soon_. He vaguely wished for Valentine, wondered if he felt the same way. He missed the warmth they'd shard. Dim light from the windows reflected on the walls as he paced the apartment, touched items to reassure himself he was home.

He finally slept, a sleep troubled by nightmares and pain as had been the previous nights. When he dragged himself from bed, back aflame in pain, his phone was buzzing and someone pounded on his door. He grabbed a robe, his gun, and shuffled to the door. Gravely stood there. “Wow. Just wow.”

“Come in,” he said, forcing himself to be pleasant. “What is it?”

“Possible murder on Third Ave at First Savings Bank. Niedermayer, can you even walk?”

“Give me a moment.”

He let her in, made his painful way to the bathroom and hastily readied himself for work after checking his phone. By the time the pain pills kicked in, he and Gravely were in the car, both had a cup of coffee Niedermayer had made, and Gravely was eying him in concern. “I’m sorry about the case,” she started.

“I understand,” he said. Intellectually he understood. Emotionally, professionally, it ground him raw. His meditating helped but not enough.

“Good.”

“Who is on Valentine’s detail?”

“Backstrom was there--I think Henderson is covering him now.”

Niedermayer nodded, trying to ignore his aching back and arm. Gravely worriedly glanced at him again. “I’m fine,” he said, already very tired of the phrase. He smiled. Living on painkillers--well Backstrom did it. Why not him?

“You look like hell.”

“Just a little tired.”

The scene hummed with activity. Niedermayer and Gravely pulled on their POLICE marked windbreakers as rain began lashing the scene. Backstrom came their way. squinting through the gloom. “About time,” he grumbled.

“He was sleeping,” Gravely replied.

Backstrom looked at Niedermayer then shrugged, choosing not to push. “Let’s work.”

An hour later, Gravely and Backstrom found Niedermayer in one of the dead teller’s stations.  “Jenkins says it’s robbery gone bad,” Backstrom said rolling his eyes at the head of the robbery unit. “Tell me it’s murder, Backstrom.”

“Jenkins’ probably right,” Gravely said. “Niedermayer, what are you doing?”

Niedermayer held a colorful glass butterfly in his fingers. He glanced up at the ceiling. “Let me check on something.” He walked out of the bank, hurrying to the next door building. About 10 minutes later, Backstrom’s phone rang. “It’s murder, Lieutenant”

“Where are you?”

“Next door. Are you still at Wilkins’ teller station?”

“Yeah.”

“Look up.”

Backstrom looked up and spotted, high on the wall, a cluster of windows and then he smiled. A single small hole--one a bullet would make. “Yes! Good work.”

“I’m on the roof next door.”

“Got it.” Backstrom stalked towards Jenkins.

When they finally returned to the station, Gravely looked at Niedermayer. “What tipped you off?” Niedermayer handed her the butterfly. “I don’t get it.”

“Wilkins had a few glass ornaments in her station. None were broken,” Niedermayer said, voice becoming enthustic. “From the multiple shots and havoc in that bank, I couldn’t see why her station wasn’t as messed up as the other stations. The glass objects should have been broken. Looking at her body, I could see the kill shot was slightly angled. I looked up and saw the bullet hole. The robbery was used as a cover.”

“Nice,” Moto said. “Good work, Niedermayer.”

Niedermayer smiled, hiding the pounding of his head.

When Backstrom got home, he smelled coffee and chinese food. Valentine fussed over a shiny new espresso machine. “Why did you buy that?” Backstrom groaned.

“I didn’t. It was a gift. Isn’t it great? By the way, I’m going crazy here. That detail has to end soon. I am losing money.”

“Deal with it. That psycho is still loose.” Backstrom sat on the sofa after grabbing a beer.

“Maybe if you hadn’t kicked Niedermayer off the case,” Valentine started.

Backstrom started. “What, he’s whining to you now? Christ, what a baby.”

“He never said anything. Jackson did and you just confirmed it.” Valentine flung him a filthy look.

“He’s a victim. How can I use him? It’s a conflict of interest to allow a victim to work on his own case.”

“That doesn’t stop you!”

“Enough,” Backstrom said. “Let me work. And you go nowhere without a detail.”

“Worried?” Valentine asked as he pushed a button on the machine.

“It may be related to a serial killer case,” Backstrom said shortly.

Valentine’s eyes widened. “Are you joking?”

“It’s possible,” Backstrom said.

Valentine swallowed, turned back to the machine which had made a latte. “So is the FBI coming?”

“Perhaps,” Backstrom said. “Hopefully we’ll get the bastard before that.”

Valentine came over, picked up a photograph. “Is this one of the victims?”

“Yes.”

“Whew.”

“Niedermayer owes you his life.”

Valentine shook his head. “He’s the one who pushed me to escape.”

“Not according to his statement. ‘On the third day, Gregory Valentine managed to slip his ropes despite a head injury. He freed himself, me, and then fled out a window per my instruction and insistence as I could not move fast enough.”

Valentine stared at the coffee in his hands. “Insistence,” he repeated. “I left him, Backstrom.”

“What?”

“I **left** him. Without a second thought. He pushed me to get free and I did. I untied his hands and I took off. I didn’t think of him. I’m no hero. All I thought of was me.” Bitterness and self loathing rang in every word.

“Hold it, are you actually saying you followed instructions? Didn’t Niedermayer tell you to go?”

“Yes but…”

Backstrom gazed at him. “You saved his life. You did what you were supposed to and with a concussion.”

Valentine looked unconvinced but a little hope entered his eyes. “He protected me.”

“It’s his job.”

“I’m sure torture isn’t part of the job description. Besides, the Supreme Court says no, it’s not his job.” He drank his coffee.

Backstrom snorted. “Think of all the good karma he’ll earn.” He thumbed through a file. “What a sick pervert.”

“Backstrom, did you put a detail on Niedermayer?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Valentine’s voice was quiet.

“He’s a cop. Or supposed to be.” Backstrom turned a page in the file.

“You can stop blaming him. He didn’t kidnap anyone.”

“He should have protected you. This never should have happened.”

“He did protect me.”

Backstrom finally sighed. “I know.” His voice softened. He finished his beer and got another. He looked at the statement. “Hey, why didn’t Niedermayer go with you?”

“He was hurt, slow.”

“But he should have followed you. Why didn’t he?”

Valentine looked at him. “What?”

“Why didn’t he follow?”

“Again, he was hurt.” Valentine finished his coffee and looked at the statement.

Backstrom grabbed his phone. After it rang a few times, he left a message. “Call me right away, Niedermayer.”

“You can always go over there,” Valentine said. “ I mean, we.”

“He’s supposed to be straight. How did you know where he lived anyway?”

“It’s called the internet. Try it.”

“That’s called stalking.”

“No, it’s not. Besides, he told me.”  Valentine suddenly paled. “Backstrom, Niedermayer had his wallet at the art show.”

“So?”

“His id--this man knows where Niedermayer lives!”

Backstrom inhaled. “Crap.” He stood up and his phone rang.

“Hello, Backstrom,” came Niedermayer’s weary voice over the speakerphone. “Is Valentine all right?”

“Yes,” Valentine called out.

“And you’re OK?”

“Just shut up, Niedermayer. Why didn’t you leave when Valentine did?”

“What?” Niedermayer sounded confused.

“He’s not in your head,” Valentine said. Backstrom gestured to the fridge and Valentine got him some cold pizza.

“When Valentine escaped, why didn’t you follow?” Backstrom waited patiently, gnawing a piece.

A huge sigh. “What does it matter?”

“Maybe be it explains some things. Why didn't you escape?”

“Our captor would be coming back. I was injured. I thought it might be best if at least I was there and/or you would get there first. He let us alone for odd periods, sometimes hours.”

“Did something else happen there?”

Dead silence. “I’ll see you in the morning, Backstrom. I’m half asleep.”

“This is important! He knows where you live!”

“Yes, sir, I know. I’m taking care of that. So let’s tackle this when I am clear headed and you have had coffee.”

“Fine.” Backstrom hung up.

“Wow. Hi, Niedermayer, sorry to wake you. How are you?”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Maybe if you showed a little interest, you’d get results.” Valentine smiled at Backstrom. “You need people skills.”

“People suck.”

“Whatever.” Valentine stood and shrugged. “He cares for you, you know.  A lot. Maybe you should use that.”

“You know I hate him,” Backstrom muttered.

“The sad thing is he actually believes that.” Valentine washed his mug.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Backstrom walked over Niedermayer’s desk as the sergeant worked on reports. “Here.” He placed a full cup of coffee on his desk along with a cinnamon bagel he knew Niedermayer liked.

“Thank you.” Niedermayer sounded and looked confused.

Backstrom felt exceedingly uncomfortable. “You kept Valentine whole and safe. Thank you again.” He shifted his weight.

Niedermayer slowly smiled, a happy smile that lit up his face. “Anytime.”

“How are you? Backwise, bodywise?” Backstrom still felt awkward but Niedermayer’s health needed to be discussed. After all, he was the boss.

“Better.” Niedermayer sipped the coffee. “And you?”

“Fine.”

Both men turned as several suited people came in. “Who called them?” Backstrom said.

“I have no idea.” Niedermayer glanced at Backstrom. “I’ll go check out the apartment of Sara Wilkins, the teller.” He pulled on his coat as it was raining again, grabbing the bagel and coffee as well.

“OK, I’ll go, too.”

“Ah, shouldn’t you deal with the FBI?” Niedermayer hid a smile.

“Gravely can do that.”

Backstrom watched Niedermayer walk, noting he still moved slower than normal. In the dry car, Niedermayer drove to the apartment while turning up the heat. “Should you be working?”

Niedermayer glanced at him. “Of course.”

“If you’re going to pass out from an infection or something…”

“I’m fine,” Niedermayer reassured. “Your health is more worrisome than mine.”

“Got it.” Backstrom said, wincing. “I read all the Skinartist files.”

“Oh,” Niedermayer said. “They’re interesting.” He glanced at the rear view mirror at him.

“It does bring some questions to mind.”

Niedermayer nodded, a calculating expression on his face. “I’m sure. What do you want to know?”

“Why did you stay? Did you talk to this man? What did you say? And why weren’t you or Valentine sexually assaulted?”

“I was hurt. Yes, I talked to him some. I told him to let us go. As for the assault, my theory is that we weren’t there long enough.”

Backstrom gazed at Niedermayer a long time. The forensics man merely watched the road.  “Or you simply don’t want to admit it.”

Niedermayer drank his coffee, finished the bagel, and then pulled into an apartment complex.  Backstrom watched him head for the complex door then hastily called Valentine. “What?” Valentine mumbled. “It’s early.”

“Was Niedermayer raped?”

A very long pause. “I’m not answering that. You need to talk to him.”

“Jesus, Valentine, yes or no.”

“I’m not answering.” Backstrom heard muttering then Valentine’s “Did you send Moto for me?”

“No. Give the phone to Moto.”

With a few quick questions, Backstrom learned the FBI wanted Valentine, Niedermayer, and him. “Moto, don’t take Valentine in until I call. Give me Valentine.”

“What is going on?” Valentine asked.

“The FBI is here. Stay there until I call you. And don’t go anywhere.”

He could practically hear the eyeroll. “Fine,” Valentine said.

“You didn’t answer my question, Valentine.”

“That’s right, I didn’t. And you can actually talk to him instead of me.” Valentine Inhaled. “Just don’t be surprised  when he says nothing.”

“Niedermayer? He never shuts up.”

“Then it should be easy, shouldn’t it?”

Backstrom grumbled and headed inside. He found Niedermayer in the apartment, taking pictures of a bedroom. “The roommate let me in.”

“The FBI wants you.”

“I know, I told Gravely we’d be in when we were done.”” He had already bagged a laptop and phone. Glass and crystal butterflies dotted the room. “Hmm.”

“They’re still insects.”

“They transform. Butterflies have been symbols of transformation for millennia.” He touched one, watched the colors shimmer.

“Flies transform too.”

Niedermayer frowned. He opened his mouth but his phone rang. “Niedermayer. Agent Gordon, good to hear from you.” Backstrom stepped closer. “I know but we are busy. I will be by later, of course. You do have my statement, everything is there. I will see you later.”

He put his phone away and Backstrom blinked. “Did you just blow off the FBI?”

“Of course not, sir,” Niedermayer said in an amused tone.

“Damn.”

When they returned to the station, Gravely pointed Niedermayer to the FBI. He nodded. “Let me wash up.”

As he left, Gravely turned to Backstrom. “We need Valentine.”

“He gave a statement and had a concussion. No.”

“Lieutenant.”  Gravely rubbed her head.

“Who is that?” Backstrom asked as a jaw droppingly beautiful woman walked past.

“Agent Lyon of the FBI. You can put your tongue back in now.”

“Niedermayer gets _her_?” Backstrom demanded. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did. You were busy with Niedermayer.”

“You didn’t tell me the FBI looked like her!”

“Gee, I wonder why!”

Niedermayer appeared, greeted the FBI agents, and walked off with Agent Lyon.

“He’s either a robot or gay,” Moto said.

“Who’s with Valentine?” Gravely asked in concern.

“Jackson,” Moto said, watching Agent Lyon. “Valentine’s getting antsy.”

“You put them in an interrogation room, right?” Backstrom demanded.

“Niedermayer is a victim,” Gravely said. “He deserves some privacy.”

“Not with her he doesn’t,” Moto muttered.

“Moto’s right. Besides this is our case---”

“His,” Gravely corrected.

“The team’s case,” Backstrom said. “Beside, Niedermayer needs our help and support.” Paquet waved to them. “Come on.”

“I put them in Room 3,” Paquet said.

“Nadia!”

“Gravely, we need to help, ” Paquet said.

The team clustered around the window. Niedermayer smoothly answered all the questions, so easy that Backstrom wondered if anyone noticed how he never deviated from his statement.

“Something’s wrong,” Gravely said after a few minutes.  “He isn’t reacting like he should.”

“He’s fine,” Almond said.

“And that’s the problem,” Backstrom said. “He’s acting just like normal, just like he wasn’t tortured at all.”

“People react in different ways,” Almond said.

“Really?” Backstrom retorted. “Look at him, he’s not even upset. Don’t say that’s normal. He’s acting like…” He stopped mid sentence. _Valentine. He’s acting like Valentine. He’s compartmentalized and shut down any pain receptors. Except he’s so much more practiced, so at ease.._

“Acting like who?” Moto asked.

“Someone I know.”

When Niedermayer left the agents, he joined the team near his desk. “Mind if I go to lunch?” he asked Backstrom.

“Sure, let’s grab a bite.”

Niedermayer blinked but nodded. “Do you like sushi?’

“You have to be kidding.”

“I want vegetarian.”

“Are you joking?”

In the end they comprised at a small outside lunch wagon and sat under a pavilion, watching the rain. Niedermayer took a few bites of his salad and then drank his water while Backstrom ate his burger and fries. They were silent until Backstrom stared into Niedermayer’s eyes like a suspect. “You were raped.”

Niedermayer cocked his head, finished his water. “Excuse me?”

“Raped, Niedermayer. The Skinartist raped you.”

“You have my statement, Lieutenant. I never wrote rape. I was injured but I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. You were tortured and raped for three days, Niedermayer. Show something. Get angry!”

“I’m fine,” Niedermayer repeated calmly.

“What are you, some cliche spouting, smiling robot? Get angry!”

“I don’t get angry often.” Niedermayer stood up. “Would you like a ride back?”

“You are a robot. Sometime, Niedermayer, you are going to snap. Your blood pressure has to be sky high.”

“Actually, I’m quite calm.”

“I hate you.”

At the station, Niedermayer focused on reports until he could slip off home. He drove past Backstrom’s place, stopping to wait until Backstrom came home and Valentine rushed out and slid behind the wheel. Niedermayer watched them drive off and for a moment, a shaft of loneliness so sharp it stunned him, tore through his chest. He inhaled and headed home. He picked up his mail and headed to his apartment. He paused at a blank postcard without a postmark, a picture of The Starry Night. No message, nothing.

He trembled once and locked his door.

He began by meditating. The rich scent of incense soothed him but his mind raced. When meditating didn’t open the door all the way, he took a long drink of some (highly illegal) tea and tried again. Past pain, past thought--he allowed the seeds of plans to germinate. When he returned to himself, he cleaned up and picked up the postcard. Had Backstrom seen his face, he would have immediately tossed Niedermayer into a freezer to cool down. But Backstrom wasn’t there and Niedermayer knew he could hide anything if he tried. He also knew he was thinking of something that would damage him as much as it would damage the Skinartist. He glanced at his bandaged arm, thought of flirty hazel eyes. He sat down and began to plot. Valentine had given up his detail very quickly but that didn’t mean he’d let Valentine be unprotected.  _My turn to hunt._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Niedermayer knew the first rule of hunting--know your prey. He had already studied records and files. Now he went further, studying criminal psychology papers and old files until his eyes dried out. He meditated and knew as he hunted, so did the Skinartist and that man knew where he lived. The Skinartist toyed with him and he needed to toy back. Cards became photos, pictures of him usually. Some were him at night, some at work. When he meditated, nothing came out well in the future for him. Yet he couldn’t turn away.  _This is mine--I have to do this._

The long days and nights wearied him but drove away some nightmares. He pulled away from his team a bit, refusing the beer and pizza or chinese food nights that occurred once in a while. He didn’t like to do so--especially when Paquet and Gravely became hurt after the second rejection--but the photos now showed him with his team mates and he didn’t dare risk them. He missed everyone but especially Valentine who came to these gatherings, missed him more than he believed. The second time, Backstrom even grumbled to him about it--Backstrom didn’t particularly like the get togethers--so he said-- but was always happy when someone else paid.

“I just have things to do,” Niedermayer said. “I made plans for the night.”

“You have a date?” Backstrom looked skeptical.

“I do go out, Lt. I'm not a hermit.” Backstrom watched him and Niedermayer looked at his boss. “Sir?” he asked.

“What?”

“The Hamilton case,” Niedermayer said, hestitating.

“He’s in prison. That case is 6 years old.” Backstrom sat down at Niedermayer's desk.

“I know, I just wondered how you figured out where he was, how he worked.”  _Help me figure where to go, what to do next._

“I used my brain, Niedermayer, try it.” Backstrom regretted his snark as Niedermayer nodded.  “Look, I read all the files, checked the maps, checked the moon. They’re all psycho--just in different ways. You have to know what makes the killer tick.”

Niedermayer tilted his head.  “Thank you,” he said.

“Why the Hamilton case?”

“Just curious about it. Thank you.”

Niedermayer hurried home, dressed in his ‘party clothes’ and headed out. He pasted his happy smile on his face and began searching again. In the past weeks, he had haunted art shows and upscale clubs. trying to find signs of the Skinartist. Hunting might be the Skinartist’s forte but he knew how to hunt as well and obsession was now his friend. He knew he was blazing a terribly dark path, one much like Backstrom’s, yet he knew he couldn’t stop. He knew every time he went out to an art show, he might be noticed.  Sometimes he wondered just who was hunting who.  _I will find you._

He drove past Backstrom’s place as had become common. He never stopped-- _What if he’s watching?_ but it soothed him. Late that night he spotted Valentine walking down the street. Valentine whirled and then waved. Niedermayer pulled over. “Going my way?” Valentine asked teasingly.

“Where can I drive you?” Niedermayer opened the car door. Valentine hopped in, smelling faintly of sandalwood. Niedermayer drove off.

“Anywhere. Seriously, I could use a lift downtown. Car’s not working.” Valentine made a face.

“How can I help?” Niedermayer felt a quiver in his knees. As his nocturnal activities increased, he realized he felt lonely more and more. He wanted someone to talk to, to curl up with and laugh with. Yet, he also knew he’d always been content with himself, happy with his own company. So why the change? And why around Valentine, a man who’d made it very clear he wanted Niedermayer but just for sex.

“Hmm, just how can you help?” Valentine gave him a smirk. “The possibilities are endless…” Niedermayer laughed.

“All right, I suppose I asked for that.”

“Ask for anything, you may be surprised.”

Niedermayer smiled and Valentine watched him. He fought the urge to talk, tell Valentine, but all he did was drive Valentine to where he wanted to go. “Peter?”

“Yes?”

Valentine turned to look Niedermayer in the eye. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”  

Long pause. Niedermayer tapped the wheel, composed himself. He actually didn’t expect this. While his teammates did seem to notice he was not quite ‘normal’, none seem to see the game he was playing. How could Valentine?

“Valentine, I am---well, let me say, I’m getting better.”   _I’m better in some ways but what I’m becoming, I don’t know._

A gentle touch on his cheek and his eyes flew open. Valentine slipped into the night and Niedermayer swallowed hard. _Please. Please be careful. I need to know you’re all right, happy._

Two days later, he received a map on a cold Wednesday. Instead of telling the others right away, he took Moto to help him. “I’m not digging,” Moto warned. Niedermayer sighed.

“I will. I just need to find something.”

The smell of rot soon filled the air. Moto coughed and rubbed his nose. Niedermayer called in a team to start digging. When a sheriff’s car pulled up, he turned to find Blue Backstrom there. “You’re out of place here,” Blue said.

“Actually, I am within my jurisdiction.” Niedermayer smiled at Blue. "The city owns this property."

“This is reservation land.”

“No, it’s not. Reservation land is at least 100 feet away. I know the territory, sir.” His smiled widened. He compared Blue’s features to Backstrom’s and Valentines. _At least his sons are better looking than him._

“The Natives may disagree.”

“They can disagree but I am right.”

“If there’s a human body there, I am taking it.”

Niedermayer looked solidly at him. “No, sir, you won’t.”

Moto nervously shifted weight. As the smell become more pungent, a decomposed cow head appeared. “You can have it,” Blue smiled.

“It’s just a cow,” one of the techs said.

“Go underneath,” Niedermayer ordered.

“Sir…”

Niedermayer smiled. “Just trust me.”

Moto dialed Backstrom. “Lt., we have a problem.””

Niedermayer spotted the skull first, detached as it was. Sweet smell of human decomposition, the buzzing of flies, and the cow carcass was moved aside. Blue stepped up as Niedermayer moved around, lifted the skull with gloved hands. Carefully he studied it. Then Niedermayer handed it to a tech and moved to a dirt encrusted box that had been found. He carefully opened it, lifted out a large roll of hide. Then he unrolled it. Slowly he exhaled. “Leave the cow,” he said. “Take the skull and find the rest of the body.”

“Found it!” a tech yelled five minutes later.

“Sgt., I’m taking the body,” Blue said.

“No, sir, you’re not,” Niedermayer said in a gentle tone, as if placating a child. Moto edged nearer.

“I can have a team of armed deputies up here in 10 minutes.”

“Then have them ready to shoot, sir. I do ask that you let me call my people first. That way, the arrests for murder can take place all at once.”

Blue eyed Niedermayer who calmly kept working. “Sergeant…”

“The body is mine, sir. You may want to go. You and the Lt. didn’t part on a good note.”

“He’s my son.”

“Not according to him, sir. Biology doesn’t mean a bond.”

“Your parents must love you.”

“They did while they lived.” Niedermayer looked at Blue. “You might want to let Backstrom make the moves.”

“You are a fount of advice.”

“Thank you,” Niedermayer said cheerily.

Moto stepped forward. Blue ignored him but gazed at Niedermayer. “All right,” Blue said. “It’s yours.”

Moto looked at the two and watched Blue leave. “You know he meant what he said about the deputies,” he said.

“I know,” Niedermayer said. “I meant what I said too.”

Moto slowly stepped back. “OK, now you’re getting creepy.”

“I wouldn’t have let them hurt you,” Niedermayer reassured.  _I wouldn't have let him. I protect people._

“Oh. Thank you,” Moto said.

Backstrom, Gravely, and Almond pulled up. “What do we have?” Backstrom asked.

“Corpse,” Niedermayer said. “Female, I think. Corpse found with a cow carcass on top.”

“Where’s Blue?” Backstrom asked, a growl in his voice.

“Gone. He understands this is ours,” Niedermayer said.

“How did you know of this?” Gravely asked.

“CI,” Niedermayer said.

“What?” Almond blurted.

“A CI,” NIedermayer said. “It means Confidential Informant.”

“We know what it means, Niedermayer,” Backstrom said in disgust. “Bring me up to date.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if, in the show, Niedermayer ever mentioned his family. So I made this part up about his family.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Back at the station, Niedermayer studied the photos of the skull, body, and skin. He began running through computer files. Backstrom came over to him with an odd look. “You have a CI.”

“Yes.”

“And what does this CI do?”

“I don’t know. He just helps me now and then.”

“Niedermayer, are you ok?”

“Of course,” he said absently.

“Great.” Backstrom watched him for a long time. Niedermayer kept analyzing, trying to understand the change. What was the Skinartist saying? The others left and Niedermayer kept looking. “Hey, sexy,” came a voice.

Niedermayer jerked. He couldn’t stop the smile. “Hi, Valentine.”

Valentine liked that smile--a happy, beaming smile that seemed to come less and less often, replaced by wistful or placating smiles . He wondered what Niedermayer thought, wanted to push him into telling him what made his smile change. He wondered if it been the attack but the smiles had started fading just recently. Then Niedermayer’s face clouded over. “What happened?” He stood up, brushed a gentle finger in the air over Valentine’s freshly bruised cheek.

“Slight run in.” Valentine shrugged. 

“With who?”

“No worries.”

“Val..”

Valentine sighed. “A patrolman and I got in a little bit of a fight.” Niedermayer's shoulders tightened.

“Who?” His voice didn't turn angry but it flattened somewhat.

“I don’t know. Thin, mustached, brunette, arrogant. Very tall. Ugly.” Niedermayer nodded. He pulled his fingers back. “You hungry?’ Valentine asked.

“I have a ton of work,” Niedermayer reluctantly said.

“We can eat in. My treat.”

“Please,” Niedermayer said. “Let me.” He handed Valentine a wad of cash. Valentine stared at him. “I trust you.”

“You like Chinese?”

“You know I do. Crab ragoons?”

“You got it.”

Valentine left. Niedermayer inhaled, went to find Officer Hirsch. When Valentine returned, Niedermayer sat at his computer. They ate, chatting about poetry. “You should learn to shoot,” Niedermayer said abruptly, as if the idea just struck him..

“Is that an offer?” Valentine asked playfully.

“If you want.” Niedermayer grinned, finished eating. “I have a friend who runs a range. Will you get up early?”

“How early?”

“Five.”

“Oh my god. Fine. Pick me up.”

The next morning, a bleary eyed Valentine received a hot breakfast and a 9 mm Glock 17. “This will be easy,” Peter said. “You have a good eye and coordination.”

“Just how close are you watching me, Sergeant?”

To his shock, Valentine received a faint blush and that happy smile again. Tension seemed to fall away as Peter took his time and instructed him. Soon the two stood at the range. Valentine grinned after the practice. “Told you,” Niedermayer said. “I’m proud of you.”

Valentine glanced at him then away. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said that to him. This so sweet man who always had treated him as a person--he didn’t know what to think anymore. Yet, Valentine ached to see that one smile again, the happy sunlight smile that made Peter Niedermayer so attractive. He still didn’t remember all of their captivity but he remembered enough and he especially remembered their bodies huddled together for warmth and Peter talking to him quietly, keeping him stable.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Niedermayer handed him the gun in its case as he dropped him off at home. “You want me to keep it?” Valentine asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes, why not?” Niedermayer said. His fingers brushed Valentine’s as he released the case. “See you tomorrow.”

Backstrom found out the next day.

“You’re teaching him to shoot?” he demanded, glaring at Niedermayer.

“Yes. He’s rather good,” Niedermayer said, smiling proudly.

“You can’t teach him!”

“Why not?” Niedermayer asked.

“He’s not a cop. And he has a temper.”

“So do you and you have a gun. Sir.”

“You’re insane.”

Niedermayer’s smile dimmed. “He needs protection, sir. He's good. This could help.”

“By giving him a gun?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not your job to protect him!”

Niedermayer looked away. “I was trying to help.”

“Well you didn’t.”

Niedermayer quickly walked off. Gravely glowered at Backstrom. “Really?” she demanded. “He actually is trying to help. So what if Valentine learns to shoot?”

“He can help by getting that report on the skull.”

“He did yesterday. Maybe you should check your email.”

“Sonofa...” Backstrom went back to Niedermayer.”Skull?”

  
“It was flayed,” Niedermayer said in a preoccupied manner, studying something on his computer. “I emailed the report to you.” Backstrom mentally groaned. He had to play nice.

“Niedermayer, are you all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The hide?”

“Tanned human skin. Probably 4 years old or so. It doesn’t belong to the corpse,” Niedermayer said, still not looking at him.

“Did you just say human skin?” Backstrom asked in surprise.

Niedermayer finally looked up. “Yes, so?”

“Since when? A painted human skin sounds awfully familiar.”

“Yes, it does.”

“So the Skinartist is back.”

“Or he never left.” Niedermayer looked back at the computer. "We'll need DNA to prove it's Parker White's skin."

“Did you want to share this with the rest of us?!”

“I did. It’s in the report, it’s not our case,” Niedermayer reminded. “And even if it was, I can’t be involved.” Backstrom hissed through his teeth. _Someone_ still was miffed.

“Let it go, Niedermayer. I’m sorry you can’t be involved.” He turned around to leave.

“Are you?”

Backstrom twisted his head, unbelieving. “What?”

“Nothing, Lt. It’s a change. Flayed skull, removed eyes and tongue--it’s all new to the Skinartist.” Niedermayer’s voice faded. “Eye removal and tongue.” His pupils dilated. “It’s an all new kill and the skin is from an older kill.” He breathed a bit harder. “He’s changing methods.”

“He’s sending a message.”

Niedermayer nodded. “Unusual.” His hands appeared to shake.

Backstrom felt something in his stomach twist. He gestured to Gravely. The two partners walked outside to the car. “Is he getting weirder?” Backstrom asked. "Since when does he not tell us everything?"

“You just noticed he's a bit off?” Gravely asked. “I told you weeks ago he was acting a little different.” Almond approached them. “Is the scene cleaned up?”

“It’s being worked on. We have a slight problem.”

“Is it Blue?” Backstrom demanded.

“Officer Hirsch.”

Gravely rolled her eyes. “That one.”

“Who’s Hirsch?” Backstrom demanded.

“Patrolman, brunette, thinks he knows it all,"Gravely described.

“You described half our force, Gravely.” Backstrom shifted back, trying to ignore the scent of pastries from the nearby bakery.

“Really tall,” Almond added, sniffing the air himself.

“OK, what’s the problem?”

“He doesn’t want to work with Niedermayer.”

“Who does? So what else is new? Besides, Niedermayer isn’t on the scene at the moment,” Backstrom said.

“I know but he is adamant.” Almond sounded resigned.

“Is this because Niedermayer is gay?” Backstrom demanded.

“He’s not gay,” Gravely said.

“Keep telling yourself that, Gravely.” The redhead sighed..

“He states Niedermayer threatened him.”

“How? Did he kiss him, force him to listen to a lecture on artifacts and customs of Peruvian peoples?” Backstrom eyed the bakery. He could use a cup of coffee…

“He described how to flay a skull and removed the skin for tanning. Then the tanning recipe and how you could remove the skin and leave the victim still alive.”

Backstrom blinked, appetite diminishing. “What?” Gravely stiffened beside him.

Almond nodded. “It was graphic.”

“Why would Hirsch be with Niedermayer anyway?” Gravely asked

“He said Niedermayer talked to him last night.” Almond’s face creased with worry. “Didn’t he leave with us?”

“Great. Gravely, talk to him.”

“I’ll try. He just states he’s fine.”

“The Skinartist is back and now this.”

“What?” Almond and Gravely spoke as one.

“Get everyone together and let’s see what we have. And have Hirsch get us some doughnuts or bagels,” Backstrom ordered. Almond cocked an eyebrow, “Niedermayer’s gay, not contagious.”

“He’s not gay!”

“Keep lying to yourself, Gravely.”


	8. Chapter 8

Niedermayer grabbed his coat and headed for his car. ‘Peter?” Paquet called.

“I’m going to the scene, Paquet.” he said.

“Take someone,” she said. “Or Backstrom will have a fit.”

“It’s a secured scene,” he said in startlement.

“And a possible Skinartist kill. You shouldn’t be going at all,” she reminded.

“That’s a theory,” he said. “Paquet, I’ll be fine.”

“I am telling you to take someone,” she insisted.

He smiled at her placatingly. Then he walked off.On the way to the car, he passed Hirsch who glanced at him then away. “Niedermayer!” Gravely said from somewhere behind him. He sighed and turned.

 “I’m going to the scene, Gravely.”

“We have a meeting. Come on.”

“I need to check something out.”

“Now, Niedermayer,”  Backstrom said from behind Gravely. Niedermayer reluctantly came to the group, wanting nothing so much to head for the scene.  

Backstrom, Gravely, Moto, and Almond headed for the board with Paquet. “What do we know?” Backstrom asked. “The skin, Niedermayer?”

“If DNA confirms the skin is Parker White’s, then we know the Skinartist is defintely related. The new corpse is not yet identified except as a Caucasian female, mid 30s. So far no matches. Skull skinned out, eyes and tongue removed. I hesitate to state the Skinartist is the killer because this killing is so different. Also, the cow carcass is interfering with details as must separate that degradation from the human. The skin from the skull not yet found.”

“Where are we on the Skinartist?” Almond asked.

“FBI case,” Gravely said.

Backstrom looked at Niedermayer.

“Sir?”

“You’ve been following the case, I assume?”

“I’ve been updated but I’m not on the case. Last thing I knew was he was suspected to have moved to Wyoming. He doesn’t hang around.” Niedermayer looked at the board.

“So why is he here?” Almond said.

“It could be a copycat,” Gravely said.

“With one of the Skinartist’s skins?” Backstrom asked. “Did he sell it on ebay?”

“No such skin showed up on ebay,” Niedermayer said.

“Are you looking?” Gravely blurted. Everyone looked at Niedermayer.

“Of course,” he replied, shocked. “I look for body parts everywhere on the Internet.”

“I hope no one ever checks your browsing history,” Almond said.

“It’s my job,” Niedermayer said.

“Yeah, like checking porn sites,” Backstrom said.

‘I have found interesting items on porn sites but…”

“Don’t care, Niedermayer. So we’re waiting on DNA?”

  
“Yes.”

“How fresh is the kill?”

“A month,” Niedermayer answered. “If the Skinartist is involved, it means there may be a lot more murders that are his. Because of the changes.”

“Great,” Gravely groaned.

“Can I leave, sir? I want to check the scene again.”

Backstrom glared. “Can you wait? And take Almond.”

“Why? It’s a scene search.”

“Then take Anders,” Backstrom said.

“Almond, would you like to go?” Niedermayer asked. Paquet hid a smile.

“Sure.”

They headed to the scene, Niedermayer musing over plans. The Skinartist’s recent ploy intrigued and scared him--this game and its webs bound him just as the physical shackles had those three months ago. He had the feeling this was a message to him and that made him nervous. His phone buzzed as he pulled up at the scene. “Where are you?” Backstrom demanded.

“At the corpse scene. We just got here.”

“Let me know what you find.”

“Yes, sir. Be back in a bit.” He hung up and began looking around, Almond doing the same. Something still seemed off. Why the cow? And where was the skin off the face? Few of the other victims had any damage to their faces at all. Was this the Skinartist’s kill after all or was he co-oping someone else’s?

A caw and a murder of crows flew past. He watched them and then looked in the tree, smelling pine and loam, hearing nothing save the wind. A flash of color and he groaned. He looked at the tree, grumbled, and began climbing. “What are you doing?” Almond yelled.

The skin mask glimmered red and gold, painted human leather. Niedermayer didn’t see the snare until it snapped but he certainly heard it. He flung himself to the side, feeling wire slash his cheek and under his jaw but not wrap around his throat. Piano wire, he saw, thin and near invisible in the shadows. He grabbed the skin mask, broke the snare, and clambered down the tree.

Almond handed him a towel. “You fool.”

“Scratches,” he said. “Thanks.” He held up the skin mask. “This wasn’t here before.”

“What is it?”

“Skin mask. I think this is the woman’s face.”

“Nasty. I’ll call the Lt. We’ll get more people here.”

Niedermayer held up the mask. “Perhaps Officer Hirsch.”

Almond looked at him. “What did he do to upset you?”

Niedermayer blinked. “I’m not upset.”

“Just let me fix your cheek. What caught you?”

Almond pulled out gauze and antiseptic from the first aid kit.

“What happened?”

“Snare. I didn’t see it.” Niedermayer stood as Almond wiped the scratches and bandaged his cheek. Niedermayer wiped his bloody hands with a wet wipe.

“A snare in the tree?” Almond asked skeptically.

“Maybe someone wanted a bird.”

“Like what? Crow?”

“Turkeys fly.”

“I’ll call in the team.”

Niedermayer carefully studied the face mask, noting the careful workmanship. Red and gold paint, delicate cuts. He turned the mask over and over in his hands. “That fascinating?” Almond asked, a bit appalled.

“Looking at the markings. I’m hoping to see what they’re related to. Native American, asian, something. Incredible work for a just a month.”

“That was someone’s face,” Almond reminded. Forensic people always got fascinated by the weirdest things.

“Uh huh.” Niedermayer turned the mask over in his hands again.

To Almond’s relief, Backstrom’s car appeared. The team joined them. “What is that?” Backstrom asked, disgust heavy in his voice.

“Skin mask,” Niedermayer said. “It wasn’t here before.”

“That is disgusting,” Gravely said.

“Many cultures honored their dead by..”

“Not now, Niedermayer,” Backstrom said. He looked at the bedraggled forensic man, bandages on his cheek, tree sap and needles in his suit and hair. “What happened?”

“It was in the tree.” He lifted the skin mask.

“From the skull?”

“I believe. It will probably match the corpse we have.” Niedermayer looked at the mask again. “Good tanning technique. It’s pretty fresh, probably tanned less than a month ago.”

“Niedermayer,” Gravely sighed. Niedermayer gave her a curious look.

“I’m not trying to be callous,” he said. “It is, however, interesting even if it is appalling.”

“You are getting way too freaky,” Gravely muttered.

“Let’s get back to the station,” Backstrom said

“We need DNA. To link the mask and corpse together.” Niedermayer touched his cheek. “Thanks,” he said to Almond.

“You are crazy,” Almond said, shaking his head.

“Just a little.”

“Niedermayer, ride with Moto and I. Gravely, take Niedermayer’s car back. Almond, go with her.”

“I can drive,” Niedermayer said.

“Great, then you drive me back. We can chat.”

“Oh.”

Niedermayer glanced at Backstrom beside him as he drove. “How did you know this was here?”

“The corpse or face?”

“The corpse.”

“I told you. I have a CI.”

“OK. So what about the face?”

“It had to be somewhere. I decided to check again.”

“It wasn’t here the first time.”

Niedermayer drove without speaking. “No,” he admitted finally.

“This place is being watched. You knew that?”

“No, not really.”

"Did you have an idea?"

"A bit," Niedermayer said. "I wondered."

"You didn't tell me?"  


I wasn't sure, sir."

"Fine. Are you seeing someone?”

“Romantically?” Niedermayer asked in startlement. Backstrom often expected his people to follow his chain of thought and Niedermayer tried but sometimes….

“Therapy, Niedermayer. You love that whole schtick.”

“I don’t need therapy.”

“You were assaulted.”

Niedermayer sighed. “I was there. I’d get help if I needed it.”

“Valentine--nothing happened right?”

“Assault wise, no. He doesn’t remember a lot, I know. Maybe that’s for the best.” Niedermayer dared another look at Backstrom. 

“Did you threaten Hirsch?”

“Threaten? We talked about the ability to make a skin mask such as we found. That’s it.”

“I am really starting to worry about you, Niedermayer.” Backstrom stared at his forensic man. He wondered more when he saw a dozen sunflowers on Niedermayer’s desk. Niedermayer stopped as though hit, color draining from his face.  

“They are very nice,” Paquet said. “What happened to your face?”

“Scratches.” Niedermayer gave her a weak smile. He touched the flowers. “I wonder who sent these.”

“Very pretty,” Backstrom said in a dry tone. “Where’s the green frou frou?”

“Just the vase and flowers,” Paquet said.

“Thank you,” Niedermayer said rather hoarsely.

“I didn’t get them for you. I just put them on your desk.” Paquet touched Niedermayer’s shoulder and he flinched. “Are you all right?”

“Just dirty. I’ll clean up.” He left.

Paquet turned to Backstrom. “What did you do?” she asked.

“Me? Is it my fault he’s weird?”

“You should do something.”

“Like what? Braid his hair and share our feelings?”

“You don’t have a problem sharing your feelings,” Paquet pointed out.

“Neither does Niedermayer. Besides, you’re his ex and his friend. Why don’t you talk to him?”

“Because you are the genius at getting in peoples’ heads, not me.”

Backstrom looked at the flowers. Something nagged at him. Valentine? No, Valentine didn't do flowers. He touched the vase, the flowers. "No card," he said softly. "That's odd."

"Secret admirer?" Paquet leaned against her desk.

"Just odd."

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Late that night, when Valentine strolled in, Backstrom simply handed him a beer. “Why are you still up?” Valentine asked, smelling of cigarette smoke and sex. His smudged eyes glittered in the dim light.

“Case,” Backstrom sighed. “Who was it tonight?”

“Jonathon. I think. Hey, what is Niedermayer doing undercover?”

Backstrom’s jaw opened, just a little. “He’s not, why?’

Valentine’s eyes flashed. “He better be. He’s been at local gay and art clubs for weeks. I didn’t find out until today.”

“Huh, maybe he’s finding himself,” Backstrom said. “You should be thrilled.”

“He didn’t tell me about it.” Valentine chugged his beer. “I found out from a friend.”

“So call him and ask.” Backstrom said in a bored tone. “Or ask during your shooting lessons.” He snorted. “Shooting lessons.”

“I’m good. And I did call him. He said he’s just enjoying the art scene.” Valentine finished his beer, stared at the bottle.

“Aren’t you the jealous one? He gets flowers too.” Backstrom stood up.

“Really? Who sends him roses?”

“Not roses, sunflowers. And he counted them.” Backstrom stretched. “A dozen sunflowers in a vase.” Backstrom stopped suddenly.

“Sunflowers? Who gives sunflowers?” Valentine asked curiously. “Did he like them?”

“He was surprised,” Backstrom said slowly. “That’s it. No card, so I can’t give you a name. And he said nothing about them.”

“Huh. That’s odd.”

“Twelve sunflowers. Why is that familiar? Backstrom asked aloud. A voice ran through his mind. _“He started by replicating masterpieces,  The Starry Night by Van Gogh in Edna Swanson, Vase with Twelve Sunflowers on Roger Swanson.”_ “God damn it!”

“What?”

Backstrom turned to Valentine. “He hasn’t been hustling. He’s hunting!”

“What are you talking about?” Valentine asked.

“Get up, we need to see Niedermayer.”

Valentine stood up. “He’s hunting the Skinartist?”

“And I bet the Skinartist is hunting him. Over everything.” Backstrom grabbed his coat, muttering to himself. “I knew it.” He glanced at Valentine. The younger man seemed to draw in on himself as he did now and then. “It’ll be all right, Val.”

“If you’re right, Peter has been seeking out the person who tortured him. That’s not all right.”

“It makes sense. He’s plotting revenge. Finally he makes some sense.”

“Niedermayer doesn’t plot revenge.”

“Of course he does. Everyone does.” Backstrom grabbed his phone and dialed. “Niedermayer?”

“What do you need, Lieutenant?”

“Where are you?”

“Going to a vandalism possible hate crime case. I just got the call.”

“Great, make sure you check everything.”

Backstrom hung up and looked at Valentine.  “Do you have a key for Niedermayer’s place?”

“I wish.”

“I need a key.”

Valentine just blinked. “What? Are you breaking into his apartment? You know, you are a cop.”

“I need to know something.”

“Then ask him. Breaking into his apartment isn’t the way.”

“Can you get me in or not?” Backstrom snapped.

“He keeps a spare in his desk. I know where it is,” Valentine sighed. “We better not get caught. He trusts me--us.”

At the station, Backstrom and Valentine headed for his office. Valentine hastily went to Niedermayer’s desk, reached in and twisted his hand. A click and he joined Backstrom. “Let’s hurry,” he said.

Niedermayer’s apartment smelled heavily of freshly burned incense and gleamed. The two began searching. The second bedroom was obviously Niedermayer’s meditation room. A small cabinet with a few bowls, a small Buddha statue, a meditation cushion, and that was it. Valentine looked at the cabinet, carefully sniffed the bowls, and raised an eyebrow.  “What is it?” Backstrom asked.

“Something not legal unless you’re a Native American,” Valentine whispered. “If the smell is right.” They moved to the other bedroom. “Hurry up.”

“At least this is easy because he’s a clean freak.”

“Some clothes are missing,” Valentine said, opening the closet.

“How would you know?” Backstrom inquired.

“I know his outfits. He has at least three suits missing.”

“Great,” Backstrom said. “So he’s hunting in an upscale area.”

“Look, Backstrom, this is so not right.” Valentine closed the door. "Huge bed." He ran fingers over the comforter

“He’s hunting the Skinartist. I need to know.” Backstrom quickly walked through the apartment. “Where would he hide stuff?”

“Nowhere because you’re nuts!” Valentine exclaimed.

Backstrom glared at him. He stalked the living room while Valentine tried to make sure the room looked exactly the same. Backstrom tried to think like Niedermayer. He turned around, looking at the room. Tall bookcases, cozy chairs, nice artwork. Nothing to show anything could be wrong. Backstrom grumbled and kicked the rug. It flopped over. Backstrom inhaled. “Valentine!” He flipped over the rug, yelling “yes!”. Valentine hurried over.

“Wow.” Photos, maps, notes covered the back of the rug. “It’s his map,” Valentine said.

“I need the rug.”

“No! You do remember we’re here illegally, right?” Backstrom grabbed his phone, took a few pictures while Valentine studied it. “This is huge,” Valentine said.

“Come on,” Backstrom said. “I need to talk to Niedermayer.”

“And ask him what? ‘Hey, why are you hunting the Skinartist? Oh, by the way, I broke into your place!’ “

“Relax. Let’s go.”

At the station, Backstrom headed for his office while Valentine headed off for coffee. Backstrom called Niedermayer. “You still on the case?”

“I’m at the station now.”

“See me when you get in.” Backstrom enlarged and printed the pictures he had taken. He nodded to Gravely who came in. “Gravely, I’ll need my office in a minute.”

“Fine,” she said. “Anything wrong?”

“We’ll see.” Niedermayer came into view. Backstrom waved him in. “Head out, Gravely.”

“Really?” Gravely asked.

“Now,” Backstrom said.

“Gravely doesn’t have to go,” Niedermayer said.

“Shut up, Niedermayer. Gravely, go.”

Gravely left, rolling her eyes.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Good morning. What did you need, sir?” Niedermayer asked. Curiosity light his face. Backstrom closed the door.

“Don’t do it,” Backstrom said.

“What?” Niedermayer asked, confused.

“Did you find him?”

Niedermayer blinked. “If I had found somebody, he’d be in here,” he said slowly.

“I meant the Skinartist.”

A blink. Niedermayer drew in a long breath, gazed at his boss carefully. “I may be close,” he admitted. He twitched nervously.

“Vengeance?”

  
“No, not for vengeance,” Niedermayer denied.

“Of course not,” Backstrom said sarcastically. “You call it justice.”

“It is justice. And it’s on my time.”

“You are hunting a psychopath.”

“It’s our job.” Niedermayer gazed at him.

Backstrom grunted. “And when you catch him?”

“Then the job is done.” Niedermayer smiled but his normal soft gaze seemed flat, dead. Backstrom immediately shoved harder.

“And you’ll just hand him over.”

“That’s my job.” 

Backstrom tossed out the photographs. Niedermayer’s face tightened. “You broke into my apartment,” Niedermayer said in a low tone.

“You’re more than looking. This--this is crazy.” Backstrom tapped the photographs. "What are you doing?"

“I am searching for a serial killer.”

“It’s a FBI case,” Backstrom said. “I just want to know what is going on. What are you planning? And what is he doing?”

“Sir, it’s a case.”

Backstrom slapped the desk, tried again to get inside the zen thick skull. “Are you that eager to die, Niedermayer?”

Niedermayer had the soft, patient look that drove Backstrom mad. “We all die, Backstrom. I am not eager to die but I am aware I will die and that I accepted long ago.”

Backstrom tried another tactic, attacking from a totally different front. “Why did you and Paquet break up?”

Utter confusion. “It didn’t work,” Niedermayer stammered.

“Why not? Let me guess you cared too much and scared her off. Too much ‘let me help’ and not enough ‘let’s do it.’” Niedermayer shook his head.

“It simply didn’t work. I care for Nadia very much. We’re friends.”

“Bet you have a lot of friends.” Backstrom knew yes, he was jealous. Niedermayer did have a lot of friends.

“I do,” Niedermayer said in a matter of fact tone.

“How many lovers?”

Niedermayer silently looked at him. “ I have had enough,” he said with defensiveness in his voice. Backstrom grinned. Could he have hit annoyance?

“What is going on, Niedermayer? A cop in prison--especially a pretty one like you--is a walking dead man.”

Niedermayer visibly jerked. “What do you think I am doing?And--you think I’m pretty?”

Backstrom groaned. “I think you’re planning murder. And compared to most in there, yes, you’ll be pretty enough.”

Niedermayer’s eyes widened. “ _Murder?_ I plan a lot but not murder.”

“Come off it. You’ve been hungry for vengeance since that bastard carved into your skin. All that zen and Buddhist crap is garbage. You don’t believe it.”

“I _do_ believe. Contrary to what you think.”

“You’re nothing but a fortune cookie. Sweet babbling and quotes but nothing behind it but air. Is that why Paquet dumped your sorry ass? Did she realize there’s nothing to you but a reflection?” _Give me something! Crack, damn you!_

He hit something. Hurt, anger, anguish--Niedermayer’s face clouded over then he stilled himself albeit with an effort and deep breathing. “I appreciate your concern. But I am not planning murder.” His voice trembled.

“Then show me. Give me everything you have.”

“I’ve been researching this for a while. Sir, you broke into my apartment!”

“Because you’re hunting a crazy man and going crazy yourself.”

“My apartment is supposed to be off limits--I am not committing any crime. And I'm not crazy.”

“Oh, yeah, there's no doubt of that. Show me what you have!”

“Trust me,” Niedermayer pleaded. “I have a plan.”

“Niedermayer, the Skinartist is nuts. He’s crazy--is this why you asked about my past cases? Did you use me?”

“I _learned_ from you. My apartment is not safe. You took your life in your hands.”

“He’s watching you.” Backstrom growled in his throat. "Stop lying to me!"

“I'm not lying! Yes. I’m sure he is watching.”

“Give me what you have.”

Niedermayer hissed through his teeth. He paced a few feet as Backstrom watched, pleased to see the armor cracking. “Are you interested in catching this man or getting revenge? Are you just wanting to kill?”

“I am not planning to kill!” Niedermayer inhaled. “If I show you--will you let this go?”

“Convince me,” Backstrom said, voice hard.

“Come to my place, I’ll show you.” Niedermayer looked distraught.

“Fine, let's go.”

A rap on the door and both turned. Valentine stood there with coffee. “Here,” he said to Backstrom, ignoring Niedermayer. “And while no one can hear all your words, they can hear the yelling.”

“No, thank you,” Niedermayer said in a low tone .

“It’s just coffee, Niedermayer,” Valentine snapped. “And Bartlett said it’s fresh.”

“Bartlett?” Backstrom asked, grabbing a cup.

“The blond rookie,” Niedermayer said, voice tightening. Backstrom glanced over at him, drawn by the tone.

“The pimply one?”

“He’s not pimply. he’s cute,” Valentine said. “And he fills out his uniform.”

If Backstrom hadn’t been observing Niedermayer closely, he would have missed the trembling hands, the tic in the jaw. He grinned. “Gotcha.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Niedermayer and Valentine both turned to him. “Valentine, go on home,” Backstrom said.

“What?” Valentine stared, somewhat slack jawed.

“You heard me, go home. Niedermayer, let’s go.”

“He’’s hunting the Skinartist,” Valentine accused.

“You told him?” Niedermayer demanded.

“Enough! Yes, he knows, Niedermayer. Valentine, I need you to get out of here so I can work. I’ll call if we need you.”

“Fine. I have a big night planned anyway.” Valentine stormed out and Backstrom didn’t miss the pain in Niedermayer’s eyes as he watched Valentine leave.  “Let’s go, Niedermayer.” Niedermayer looked as if he would argue but followed. “You disappoint me, “ Backstrom said as they neared the cars. A damp wind blew and he lit a cigar. Niedermayer turned his head as if listening to the street sounds. “Love, Niedermayer? Really?”

“Love?” Niedermayer turned his full attention to Backstrom, eyes widening.

“Love. Not revenge but love. All for Valentine.”

The tranquil forensic detective wore his emotions plainly--usually. No one on the team wondered about Niedermayer’s feelings because he told them and/or showed them. Like a happy puppy, Niedermayer was easy to read. Somehow he had hidden _this_ from everyone, Backstrom and Valentine included. Backstrom hated to admit it but he was impressed. And wondered what else Niedermayer hid away. “I care for Valentine, yes.” Cool. Calm. Easy. And with a flare in his dark eyes,

“You care so much you’ll kill for him.”

“Killing again? I’d protect him, yes. I’d protect anyone.”

“He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need protecting.”

“So why do you do it?” Niedermayer countered, going on the offensive. “You love him.” Backstrom snorted.

“He’s useful and pays rent. And my brother. You--You’re willing to kill someone because he hurt Valentine. I understand that desire, even applaud it--somewhat-- but you actually have a plan.”

“I’m tracking a serial killer. I understand that killer better than most. It’s my job to bring him in.” Niedermayer looked away from Backstrom. Backstrom leaned forward, pressing. Niedermayer actually stepped back. Backstrom changed his tone, became softer.

“Let the team bring him in.” Niedermayer shook his head.

“It would risk their lives.”

“And yours?”

Niedermayer’s eyes seemed darker than normal. “You have your pick of forensic people.”

Backstrom coughed. “You’re the team forensics, remember? Stop being such a noble martyr. If you’re dead or in jail--which you will be--who’ll help the team and protect Valentine?”

“They have you, Everett. I can be replaced.”

Backstrom jerked. From the look on Niedermayer’s face, he honestly believed what he said. Backstrom insulted and baited all his team. Gravely, Moto, and Paquet insulted back, Almond ignored it, and Niedermayer? Well, Backstrom wondered if he’d gone too far. “Grow a spine. You don’t need coddling--you know you’re good.” Niedermayer actually smiled, lifted a shoulder in a shrug. Backstrom joined him in the car. “You could just get it over with, have sex and get dumped,” Backstrom suggested.

“You have a great imagination, sir.”

“There’s no such thing as love, Niedermayer. Didn’t Paquet teach you that?”

Niedermayer’s lips thinned for a heartbeat, enough so Backstrom saw he was ripping into soft spots. He didn’t do this to his team--not like this, anyway--but if Niedermayer honestly was planning to trap and kill the Skinartist, Backstrom needed something, a way in. And he’d found it.

“Amy,” Niedermayer said. Clearly Niedermayer knew how to play hard and dirty if he had to. Backstrom nearly lunged but contented himself with elbowing Niedermayer hard. Niedermayer gasped a little.

“Leave her out of this!!”

“You did obviously care for her enough to become engaged,” Niedermayer reminded.

“I didn’t plot murder for her.”

Niedermayer sighed. “I am not plotting murder.” At the apartment, Niedermayer opened the door and stepped inside. Backstrom followed. “It looks the same. Thank you for not tossing it,” Niedermayer said.

“Stop it,” Backstrom ordered.

“Here’s what I have.” Niedermayer flipped over the rug and lifted it. Carrying towards the wall, he hung it from the heavy duty curtain rods. It could easily be read now.

A low whistle escaped Backstrom. “I need the team.”

“No. You wanted me to show you. Here’s my board.” Niedermayer pointed to the maps. “I have files on all known Skinartist kills. I have tried to predict him. My data doesn’t show everything but here is where I am learning. Every kill scene, every date, every mutilation. Somehow this is is all related. In what he carves, draws, it all is related.”

“Is your picture up here?”

“Yes. See all the nature themes? And the skin mask? Why the change?” Niedermayer rubbed his eyes.

“Niedermayer, we need the team. And how is the Skinartist contacting you? I’m guessing he’s the CI.”

“The map I was given.” Niedermayer tapped the map. “Sir, this is my project. I’ve been to art shows and clubs. I’ve researched. I can do this.”

“He’s leading you by the nose,” Backstrom said. “How can you be this stupid?”

Niedermayer ignored him. “This is what I’ve been doing. That’s it. Now trust me. I know I’m getting close.”

Backstrom studied his sergeant, the glow of utter obsession in his face. He knew it all too well and wondered if he looked as scary as Niedermayer did. He pulled out his phone. “Gravely, get the team, including Paquet, to Niedermayer’s place. And keep it hushed. Now.”

“This is _my_ home,” Niedermayer said. “You are risking everything! I can do this.”

“You can’t. He will slaughter you, Niedermayer. This is sick, do you know that? This is why we have a team!”

Niedermayer gave him the same look of enraged betrayal he did when Backstrom had kicked him off the case those months before. “This is my work,” he said in a low tone, an almost growl.

“No one is denying you the credit!”

“You think this is about credit?!” Niedermayer shook his head. “Just lock the door when you’re done.” He left, leaving Backstrom opened mouthed.

“Niedermayer!” He stalked after him, stopping when he spotted Valentine and Niedermayer by his car. Niedermayer leaned forward, gave Valentine a long kiss, and then got into his car and left.

A stunned Valentine wheeled to face Backstrom. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded, wild eyed and touching his lips.

“You’re supposed to be smart, figure it out!”

“I don’t do love!”

“Apparently, he does,” Backstrom glared at the empty parking spot. "Why are you here?”

“I was curious.”

“Great. We’re searching the apartment again and bringing in the team.”

“Official case?” Valentine asked. Backstrom shrugged. “Great, I’ll do what I can.”

Backstrom sighed.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

The team arrived, everyone looking curious. Backstrom directed them to Niedermayer’s apartment. Gravely looked at him as they all went inside. “What is going on?”

“Niedermayer is hunting the Skinartist who is hunting him. And both are planning on killing the other.”

Gravely jerked, stared and then bit her lip as if to keep from laughing. “Niedermayer.” She inhaled, looked at the others. “Niedermayer wouldn’t kill anyone. It’s not in him.” The silent, incredulous looks of the others agreed with her.

“Niedermayer. Killing someone.” Almond’s lips twitched, preventing a smile.

Backstrom leaned towards them. “It’s in everyone, Gravely. Take someone, the nicest person you know. Tie them up, torture them for three days, tell them you’ll kill them, then stalk them once they escape, and yes, they’ll plot murder, too.”

Gravely shook her head. “Not him.”

“Why do you think he’s been acting so odd, so not Niedermayer? He’s being hunted. Those flowers--Twelve Sunflowers in a Vase.”

“That’s Van Gogh,” Valentine said.

“We know. And something the Skinartist carved into a victim before he went freestyle.” Valentine’s eyes widened.

“That doesn’t explain why the killer would want Niedermayer,” Gravely said. “And why is Valentine here?”

“Valentine was there and is Niedermayer’s--friend.” Backstrom paused over friend. From the looks he got, that stumble wasn't unnoticed.

“Why would the Skinartist want Niedermayer?” Almond asked, glancing around the apartment.

Because he escaped,” Valentine said softly, looking at Backstrom. “His painting is roaming free.” Backstrom nodded and pointed at him.

“Bingo. Niedermayer is healed, healthy, and obviously has plenty of skin.”

“Oh my god,” Gravely said. “But Niedermayer would have _told_ us. And that doesn’t explain why the Skinartist focusing on Niedermayer.He hunts down pairs, kills after a week. Now he’s after one person, a specific one at that. It makes no sense.”

“Newsflash, Gravely, psycho killers don’t make sense.” Backstrom stared at her.

“Because you’re not thinking like an artist.” Valentine walked to a window as the team watched. “To have your art taken from you would drive most artists--serious artists--mad. If this psycho sees Peter as his work, something he created, yeah, that’s a problem. He wants his painting back.”

“That painting is a human being,” Almond said.

“So?” Valentine said, looking at him with dark eyes.

“Maybe you should be…” Paquet started.

“I spent time with the Skinartist, too. I may not know him because I don’t remember a lot but I know Niedermayer and I am already involved.”

“ _We_ know Niedermayer,” Gravely said. “He’s our teammate and friend.”

“Yeah, like how all of you knew his birthday two weeks ago.” Valentine gave her a shark’s smile. She blinked and her shoulders slumped. Paquet looked startled.

“He’s not a ten year old,” Backstrom reminded. “Let’s focus. Niedermayer is hunting the Skinartist who is hunting him. We are going to find him before he dies or ends up in prison.”

“Peter wouldn’t kill anyone,” Gravely repeated.

Backstrom glanced at Valentine. “Oh, yes, he would.”

“So clean,” Gravely said, looking around. “I should have him clean my place.”

“No one can live in such clean,” Moto muttered.

“Just search the place. The board is there. Search first. Paquet...”

“I know, check the computer.”

“And track his phone. Find him.”

She began working while the others started searching.

Gravely, Backstrom, and Valentine headed for the main bedroom.

“Some clothes are missing,” Valentine said for the benefit of the others, opening the closet again.

“How would you know?” Gravely inquired, just as Backstrom had. Valentine simply smirked.

“"We know, the Skinartist hunts in fancy areas," Backstrom said. He hoped Gravely would see something. Of course, he hadn't spent much time in here before.

“Makes sense,” Gravely said. “The Skinartist seems to grab from wealthy events.”

“Arty events. He likes culture.” Valentine flipped through the closet. “I love men with good clothes and taste.”

“Stop feeling up the shirts,” Backstrom said, smacking Valentine’s shoulder. “It’s just wrong. And while he may grab from cultured events, none of his victims are wealthy. Gravely, what are you doing?” The petite redhead knelt in the closet.

“Gun safe,” Gravely said, tapping a black steel box. “You know the code?”

Backstrom looked at her incredulously. “How would I know? Try his birthdate.”

“Let me,” Valentine said. He crouched next to her and entered a series of numbers. “Not his birthdate.”

“Try yours,” Backstrom said.

“No good.” Valentine tried another code and the safe silently opened “Your birthdate,” he told Backstrom. Gravely smirked at Backstrom.

“Stop it. Niedermayer and I don’t have a relationship. Other than boss and annoying subordinate.”

“He does like you,” Valentine teased.

“Enough. I’m not gay,” Backstrom growled.

“That’s what he says and you keep ignoring him,” Gravely reminded.

“He is gay, I’m not.”

“So you say,” Gravely said.

“Hey, I’m not the one in love with Valentine!”

“Really?” Valentine snapped. “You had to yell that?”

Gravely’s eyes opened wide. “Wow. And neither of you thought to share that?! It explains some things--like why he’s been a little odd lately.”

“Hey, ginger, he didn’t share it with me either, so lay off,” Valentine bristled.

Paquet’s head poked in. “What is the yelling for? And Almond found something."

  
"So did we,” Backstrom said, kneeling near the safe. Two guns and their magazines laid in the safe.

“He didn’t take his service gun or back up,”  Gravely said softly. “Not good.” She swallowed hard.

“Valentine, do you still have the other gun?”

“Yes, we practice every other morning. He said I should keep it.”

“Great, he’s unarmed. Facing down a psycho.” Backstrom rubbed his eyes.

“He must have a different plan,” Valentine said as Almond, Moto, and Paquet entered.

“I’m sure he does,” Backstrom said. “We better find him fast.”

“He isn’t planning murder then,” Valentine said.

“Who knows? If we don’t find him, then the Skinartist gets a new trophy. We can’t have that.” Backstrom paced the room.

“Because you care for him,” Paquet said with a smile.

“No, because if anyone is killing Niedermayer, it’s me.” Almond put a large folder on the bed. “What is it?”

“Picture, cards. All dated. The oldest is three days after his attack. He’s been hiding this for a while.”  The team sifted through the pictures and cards. “I still don’t know why he didn’t tell us,” Almond said.

“Because he’s an idiot,” Backstrom retorted.

“Or because of this.” Moto pointed to a photo of Backstrom and Gravely at the station. “There’s some of all of us.”

“So he decided to ‘save us all’.” Almond looked through the photos again.

“That’s terrific. So this all boils down to Niedermayer somehow beating a psychopath who has been outwitting everyone for years. Wow, I feel better. So Niedermayer either dies or goes to prison. And prison is the best case scenario! And we look like idiots for not knowing.” Backstrom stalked out to the fridge.

“He doesn’t like beer that much,” Valentine warned.

“Ha! A whole case here.” Backstrom grabbed one, ignoring Gravely’s narrowed eyes. “It’s not an official case, Gravely.” Paquet took one as well.

“Nadia,” Gravely groaned.

“Why did you two break up?” Backstrom asked. Maybe, maybe she had a clue.

“It simply didn’t work out. “ Paquet swallowed and pulled a box of crackers from the cupboard. “And this was before the Skinartist, remember. He’s one of my best friends but…” She shrugged.

“There has to be more than that,” Gravely said.

“No and I don’t want to talk about it.” Paquet smiled and went back to the computer. “I am trying to break the GPS on his phone. He has the phone on--I think--but no way to track it yet.”

“Would he answer for Valentine?” Gravely said. “Since he and Niedermayer--you know.”

“I am right here,” Valentine said angrily. “And the answer is no. He isn’t answering me either.”

“Are you two together?’ Paquet asked Valentine.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Backstrom and Valentine looked at each other. “Excuse me, I think I know if I’m with someone,” Valentine said.

“He kissed you.” Backstrom swigged his beer.

“So?”

“It does explain a few things,” Paquet muttered.

“Ha! I knew it! You broke up because he’s gay.”

“That’s not why,” Paquet sighed.

“Yeah? How often were you two intimate?”

“Backstrom!” Gravely’s voice rose. Paquet looked coolly at Backstrom.

“None of your business.”

“What, five times? Three? At all? You did have sex, right?”

“None of your business and I did get something. He has been playing chess against the computer. A lot.”

“Strategy games,” Almond said. “Makes sense.”

“What’s the last card or picture?” Backstrom asked.

“This. It’s one of those cards galleries hand out. The only one with an actual message.” Moto gave Backstrom a taped together card that read Your Move on the back.

“That’s Niedermayer’s writing,” Almond stated.

“I can see that. He sent a card?” Backstrom looked at the card. “It’s the Art Haven.”

“They opened a new exhibit a week ago,” Valentine said.

“Did you see it?”

“Not yet.” He looked at the picture. “It opens at 4 PM. I can get in now, I know the owner.”

“Take Moto,” Backstrom said.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“Valentine…”

“Backstrom, enough. I’ll be OK.” He left quickly.

“If Niedermayer is in love with Valentine, that may complicate things,” Paquet said. “Especially if the Skinartist knows that.”

“Niedermayer’s kept it pretty undercover,” Backstrom said.

“Did you know?” Almond asked. “Because they certainly aren’t acting like a couple.”

“That sounds like homophobia,” Backstrom retorted. “But no. There’s no couple. Valentine doesn’t do love, so it appears Niedermayer just has crappy skill picking romantic partners.”

“Don’t we all?” Gravely muttered. They studied the board, throwing out theories.

“Lieutenant, you keep saying he’ll go to prison. Why? He’s not committing a crime.” Moto studied the board.

“He’s plotting murder. We need to figure out how and where.” Backstrom paced the floor.

“He doesn’t have a gun.”

“Says who?” Almond said. “No one said he couldn’t have gotten an unregistered gun somewhere.”

“He would not,” Paquet said. “He would not kill in cold blood.”

“I bet you thought he wouldn’t do this either.” Backstrom pointed to the board. “He has spent several months planning this.”

“Why? Because he was attacked?” Paquet shook her head. "No. He is not a killer."

“Attacked and threatened,” Gravely said. “I don’t think he wants to kill anyone but catch them, yes.”

“He wants him dead.” Backstrom grabbed his phone as it rang.

“You need to come here,” Valentine’s voice echoed. “I found something.”

“Where?”

“At the gallery.”

“On our way.” He hung up. “Paquet, keep trying to find something. And track his phone!"


	13. Chapter 13

As they pulled up at Art Haven, Moto sighed. “Niedermayer and I were here at last night.”

“For what?” Gravely asked.

“Vandalism. Supposed hate crime since it’s owned and run by gays and much of its artwork is focused on gays,” Moto said. The others looked at him. “What?”

“What was the vandalism?” Backstrom demanded.

“Someone broke in and painted ‘mine’ over a photograph. Thankfully, the photograph is enclosed in glass and it could be cleaned.”

Valentine walked over to them. “This way,” he said. “Jon--he owns the place, he let me in.”

Small and lovingly decorated, Art Haven stood as a shrine to art, photographic art in particular for this exhibit. Ceramic floors, buffed until they shone and discreet lighting highlighted every piece. Statues dotted the rooms but the walls were the main attraction.

“It’s like a Mapplethorpe exhibit in here,” Backstrom complained.

“It’s art, Backstrom,” Valentine said. “This is the one.”

A row of black and white photographs, all of men in various forms of nudity, many tattooed or scarred, filled a long hallway. Almond looked nonplussed, Moto bored, and Gravely interested. The photograph Valentine led them to was a study of a man’s bare back, slightly curved, with scar roses carved into the flesh, some burned, and a vine twisted through them. “This is the vandalized one?” Backstrom asked Moto.

“Virgin Rose? Yeah, that’s it. Big red letters--it said Mine. “

“Virgin Rose?” Almond echoed.

“It’s the name of the work,” Moto said.

“Is that Niedermayer?” Gravely asked in a whisper.

“Yes,” Backstrom said.

“He’s muscled,” Gravely mused.

“You should see the colored one,” Valentine said to her. “It’s in the back room.”

“Seriously? He modeled?” Backstrom shook his head.

“So his scars are all healed?” Almond asked.

“Let’s see the color photo.” Backstrom rolled his eyes at Gravely as she studied the pictures.

The color photo, like the many beside it, depicted the scarification in brilliant color.  The roses, dusky red against the skin, contrasted with indigo blue roses and the green vine. “Wow,” Almond said.

“What are the colors from?” Moto asked.

“Some kind of dye,” Backstrom said. A slender man walked toward them.

‘That’s Jon,” Valentine muttered.

“Hello,” Gravely said. “Is this your work?”

“No, I own the gallery. Bruce is the artist. This is Virgin Rose in Bloom.”

“This is Lieutenant Backstrom, I’m Detective Gravely. Was this work vandalized?”

“No, just the black and white.”

“What makes someone photograph this?” Almond asked.

“People like unusual, something to stand out. Bruce wanted more than pretty. When I saw this photo, I was amazed at the work on this model and the colors are incredible.” Jon looked at the photograph. “Bruce’s husband used the same model for a painting he’s working on.”

“You know those are scars, right?” Almond asked.

“I know. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

Backstrom started to stiffen. “Backstrom,” Gravely said, pulling him aside.

“That’s a man who was tortured, Gravely, shackled and carved, not someone who signed up to be an art piece. It’s disgusting, people ogling butchery.”

“They don’t know he didn’t volunteer for the scarring. Besides, he modeled this.”

“People don’t volunteer for this,” Backstrom said.

“Yes, they do,” Valentine said, coming to him.”I’m sure he didn’t tell them. People do like the unusual.”

“It’s a photographic freak show. Why would he do this?”

“Are both the pieces sold?” Almond asked.

“Oh, yes. Many aren’t but the Rose pieces are.”

“Who bought them?” Backstrom asked.

“One of our premium buyers.”

As they hurried to the cars, Backstrom mentally reviewed what he knew. He called Paquet. “Paquet, tell me about the list of clubs and dates you found.”

“Just what you said. Dates, a club or even name, times of event.”

“And Niedermayer most likely went to each one.”

“I imagine.”

“Thank you. Track his phone.” He hung up.

“So?” Gravely asked.

“Niedermayer is baiting the Skinartist. All this time, he pops around, making sure he’s visible.”

“So?” Almond said.

“And so he gives another artist credit for the Skinartist’s work. I told you, artists are passionate and therefore stupid. The Skinartist sent him all those photos and cards and Niedermayer basically just shoved that psycho over the edge. For the Skinartist, his painting not only left him, it's betraying him. ”

“Then Niedermayer catches him,” Moto finished.

“This is a serial killer. A smart one. Do you think he’s going to allow Niedermayer to put cuffs on him?”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Niedermayer sat at the bar, glancing at his phone. The messages made his heart ache and he desperately wanted to answer them. He could but then Paquet would track him, if she hadn’t already. He finally sent Valentine and Backstrom the same message. _Trust me. All of you, trust me._

Backstrom stared at his phone. “What the hell?” he asked. “Trust that you’re going to die?”

Valentine sent one word. _Please._

Niedermayer stared at that one word. He typed a few words, then swore and called Backstrom, not trusting himself with Valentine. “I’m fine, why are you worried?”

“Really? Now that you’re a model, you don’t associate with your teammates?”

“Backstrom…”

“If you do this, you will never be the same.” Backstrom inhaled. “Niedermayer --Peter--you’ve already planned this but you haven’t killed anyone. Let us take him in.” Niedermayer inhaled, shaken to the core. “Please.”

“Where are you, Backstrom?” When Backstrom told him, Niedermayer nodded. ½ hour away. “Sir…”

“Niedermayer,” Backstrom said. In his voice Niedermayer heard the plea. Niedermayer sighed and then spotted his prey. He rattled off his address. Backstrom nodded to Moto. “He is coming for me,” Niedermayer said. 

“I know. You coaxed him to you. You baited him to this. And you have no weapons. Do not kill yourself for him or us or Valentine. We need you.”

Niedermayer felt a breeze. He looked to his left.  “Hello,” he said with a smile, setting his phone aside.

The Skinartist smiled at him. “Hello again.”

Niedermayer swallowed his drink. “It’s been awhile.”

Backstrom slapped the seat, gesturing for Moto to speed up. He hit speakerphone so Gravely could listen.

“I know. I’m glad to see you’re well.” The Skinartist touched Niedermayer’s arm.

“Completely,” Niedermayer said.

“I’m surprised you’re not speaking french.”

“Neither of us are fluent,” Niedermayer said. _I am not letting you hurt anyone again. I will take you down._

A hand massaged his knee. He cocked an eyebrow, suppressing a shudder. “Come dance,” the Skinartist ordered.

“Give me a moment. Wouldn’t you like a drink?”

“Maybe later.”

“I hope you liked the art show and exhibit,” Niedermayer said. “I know you were there. I’m looking forward to seeing more.”

The Skinartist’s hand grasped Niedermayer’s left wrist. “I missed you, Peter.”

“Really? I’ve been wondering why. You’re not my Valentine.” The Skinartist ran his fingers under Niedermayer’s shirt. His skin crawled as the man groped his waistband. “Don’t be hasty.” He shoved the hand away.

“Look at all the gay men, sweetheart. No one will mind or be surprised at a little feel.” Calloused fingers ran over his skin like spider legs. “No gun?”

“I don’t need a weapon for you.” Niedermayer studied him. _You have no idea of the doors you opened. I shut them so long ago._

“Aren’t you bold? Wait until we’re alone. We’ll see how well your vocal cords have healed.”

Gravely yelled in her phone as they screeched around a corner. Niedermayer shuddered once. “I don’t feel like screaming tonight.” He firmly pushed the Skinartist’s hand down. “I do hope your art has improved.”

The Skinartist grasped his wrist again and the pressure on his wrist tightened until he felt the bones ache. “Let’s leave,” the Skinartist breathed in his ear.

“In such a rush?” Niedermayer tried to play coy. He’d learned a lot from the gay crowd and tried to mix a bit of flirty Valentine into his manners. “Is my back that enticing?”

“I want my canvas.”

Niedermayer looked at him, the flirtiness gone. He straightened his shoulders. “That canvas is me.” _Tears and pain, biting into lower lip until blood runs, refusing to scream more. Flames licking bloody skin. Fingernails ripping into flesh, stinging pains that are nothing compared to being violated and assaulted again and again. Terrified hazel eyes that hurt internally more than the physical wounds._

“I know.” The man’s breath rippled his hair. “I’m taking the whole thing.”

Niedermayer smiled sadly. “You can try.” _Why didn't you run?!_

“I will make you beautiful.” The Skinartist reached out and caressed Niedermayer’s face. “You will make a beautiful mask. And the garden I will carve to go with the roses. Perhaps lilies of the valley. I may let you heal--it adds a depth to the canvas.”

Niedermayer felt his smile twist. He stepped forward, pushing against his chest and stepping on the Skinartist’s foot. “The canvas,” he murmured, too low for the phone, “is for an artist, not some butcher.” The Skinartist glared at him. “I’ve done better fingerpainting than what you did to my skin.”

“You degenerate..”

“Do you think you’re the first person to use pain and blood as a medium? You’re an inept amateur.” Niedermayer breathed softly, staring in the Skinartist’s eyes. “I’ve been dreaming of peeling your eyelids off. How long would you last, I wonder?“ There were reasons he’d spent years working on his emotional and spiritual side, years spent reining in and controlling emotions. He thought of Valentine, the feel of his lips under his, and how the man in front of him would hurt Valentine, what he planned for him. He allowed the darkness to creep out a little more.

The Skinartist’s eyes widened. Niedermayer wasn’t Backstrom--he couldn’t read people near as well nor was he on that higher plane that Backstrom could go to. But he could understand people and also aggravate them and after years of being an officer and months of studying the files and playing with this killer, he knew a few things. His three day imprisonment had been just the start. Trying to understand the Skinartist meant he learned how to push the killer’s buttons. The art exhibit had been another nudge in a series of nudges. Now he would push it more.

This was why he had wanted to be alone-to play this killer and make him so angry he’d blow his cover. Also, he didn’t want anyone to see what he kept hidden. He wasn’t planning murder _(not anymore)_ but he knew very well his life was on the line. As well as the Skinartist's life.  _Oh, yes, I’ll kill if I can._ He didn’t usually allow his dark side out. At all. He leaned closer. “Do you know what happens if you place a drop of a certain hot pepper on any mucous membrane? It more than blisters. It burns away tissue--eye tissue, the head of a penis, so much much more. You would howl and beg. And evisceration takes a long time if done in certain ways. So very long. ” He pulled away, leaned back against the bar. “I truly thought you wouldn’t come. I gave you every chance to leave. Yet you kept coming back.” He shook his head. “So very stupid.”

The Skinartist studied him as if he had two heads, curious and puzzled. “What part of mine don’t you understand?”

“I’m more than your canvas. Did you like the photo?” Niedermayer asked. “I thought Bruce added some depth to it--after all, your design is pedestrian.”

The Skinartist stiffened. “What?”

“I understand art. You’re simply--not good.” He smiled. “Sloppy, unskilled.”

The Skinartist slapped him. The sound rang out and Niedermayer touched his lip. Then Niedermayer grinned and allowed himself one, bone crunching punch direct to the nose. The Skinartist reeled back. Niedermayer shuddered and, with great effort, he stopped himself from going further. He stood still while an eerie glow entered the Skinartist’s eyes. Niedermayer smiled even wider. “Dance?” he asked. 


	15. Chapter 15

Backstrom pushed into the bar area, groaning as screams echoed. The floor trembled as a body hit it. Backstrom felt his team spread out beside him. Alarmed people shoved and ran and some--worse to him--stood around, filming with their phones. Like a gladiator match, two men fought, one a tall man with black hair scrambling from the blood splattered floor with a knife clenched in his hand. The other was Niedermayer--a bloody Niedermayer who had no weapon yet advanced on the other with an arctic look on his face. Backstrom wondered how long this fight had been going on because both men bore 'battle marks'--bruises, cuts, and in Niedermayer's case, knife wounds. The man slashed at Niedermayer, who darted aside but a gash opened along his ribs. Niedermayer didn’t stop. The taller man jumped forward and Niedermayer rocked back under the attack. His hands locked on the man’s throat and he twisted, slamming the other into the bar. “Give up,” Niedermayer hoarsely ordered. He stepped back, arms at his side. 

The man responded by charging forward, rage and fear clear in every moment. Niedermayer smiled, grabbing him again. “Niedermayer!” Backstrom yelled. Niedermayer turned his head, spotted him. “Stop!”

The ghastly look in Niedermayer’s face made Backstrom weirdly realize he’d always wanted to see Niedermayer angry. He regretted that wish right now. “Niedermayer, let him go, we’re here!” Niedermayer stared at him then yelped as the knife cut into an arm.  He punched down, shoving the unknown man down and away. Again he stepped back. “Niedermayer!” Backstrom yelled again. Niedermayer looked over, his face terrible. “Moto, get in there! Niedermayer, get over here!”

“You are nothing!  I made you beautiful!” the unknown man screamed, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. Niedermayer shook his head.

“You can’t make anything beautiful. Artists create. You aren’t an artist.”

The man lunged again, a berserk lion, and Moto tackled him. “Moto, cuff him and get him to the car. Read him his rights! Gravely, make sure the ambulance is here. Almond, collect the cell phones! Niedermayer, how bad are yo…?”

Niedermayer panted, his shirt soaked in blood. Blood dripped to the floor and he gave a shudder. “You came,” he said quietly, wonderingly. He seemed like Niedermayer again, eyes soft, face normal.

“You knew I would.” Backstrom grabbed towels from the bartender and pressed them against the gaping wounds he saw. Niedermayer coughed but no foam appeared, so hopefully his lungs were all right. Backstrom didn’t look closer, hoping it wasn’t bone he saw in one slash. “Gravely! Where the hell is EMS? He damn well better not bleed out here!” He looked at Niedermayer. “Hang on,” he ordered.

Niedermayer’s fingers squeezed his arm as he looked around. EMS raced to them. “Val…” Niedermayer choked. “Where’s Valentine? Is he…”

“He’s OK,” Backstrom reassured. “He’s all right.”

EMS moved Backstrom out of the way and Niedermayer--panicked. He pushed their hands away until he saw Backstrom. Backstrom leaned over, touched his arm, and Niedermayer steadied. Backstrom kept a hand on Niedermayer until he was loaded because Niedermayer panicked and thrashed if he didn’t see or feel him. That Backstrom didn’t understand but he would figure it out later. “We’ll meet you at the hospital,” he said.

Niedermayer nodded. The ambulance closed doors and Backstrom turned to his team. “Where’s Valentine?”

“I’m here.” Valentine stood by Gravely. His hands, thrust into his pockets, seemed clenched. “How is he?”

“Bad. Gravely, settle our new friend in. I’ll follow Niedermayer to the hospital. Almond, lock this place down, get statements. Get Anders in here. Moto, help Almond. Valentine, drive me.”

"I hope those phones tell the story," Moto said. "Because this must have been one crazy fight."

At the hospital, Valentine and Backstrom walked to the desk. The nurse on duty looked up. “Niedermayer,” Backstrom said,

“Sergeant Niedermayer...May  I have your names please?”

“Lieutenant Backstrom. Niedermayer is my sergeant.”

Her gaze flickered to Valentine. “Valentine,” he said.

“All right, you’re listed as people who are family.”

“What?” Backstrom exclaimed. Valentine nudged him.

“Thanks,” Valentine said. “He should have just come in.”

“He’s in surgery. It may be awhile. We can call you.”

“Great. We’ll wait.”

They sat together in silence for a long time. "You all right?" Backstrom asked.

"No. Is it bad I want him to pull through so I can punch him?"

"Get in line."

Valentine suddenly smiled. "At least he'll impress my mother. I'll say 'Here, satisfied? My boyfriend.'"

Backstrom laughed. "She'll either hate or love him. Especially since he's pagan."

"You're atheist and she loves you."

Backstrom shrugged. Almond, Paquet, Moto, and Gravely came into view, sat with them. They talked, in low tones, continually looking up for a doctor. Several other police officers stopped by as did Amy. A surgeon walked towards them. “Everett Backstrom? Gregory Valentine?”

“Yes.”

“He’s out of surgery. He lost a lot of blood. He’s still unconscious and will be for quite a while but he’s stable.” The surgeon smiled. “I’d suggest you all go home.”

Relief palpably swept the group. “Gravely, get a team to watch over Niedermayer. Where’s the Skinartist?” Backstrom asked.

“At the station now. He was being treated here,” Gravely said. Everyone stiffened. “He needed treatment and never came near Niedermayer. Calm down.”

“All right. I am going to the station. Almond, did you bring in the cell phones?” Backstrom asked.

“Yes, Paquet was working on them. I have statements as well. I'll drive you back, update you.”

“I’ll meet you at the station,” Paquet said.

Valentine took out a phone out of his pocket. The barkeep had given it to him. He turned it on, played with it, and stared at a photo of himself from around seven months earlier. The team had been at a charity function and Niedermayer had obviously gotten a picture. He studied it for a long time. He didn’t allow love. He didn’t want love. _Liar._ Yet, so much of him did wonder about what could be. _This is far more frightening than it should be, Peter. Why me? When? Why didn't you tell me?_ He handed it to Paquet. “Peter’s phone,” he said.

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

 

At the station, Almond, Gravely, Backstrom, and Moto gathered around Paquet. “I combined the cell phone videos,” she said. “I tried to get a clean view of the fight. It’s was difficult.”

“Show us.”

After the video played, Backstrom looked at Paquet. “Play it again.”

“Wow, he is crazy,” Moto said.

The video played slower. “Here,” Paquet said. “The first video.” The team watched as Niedermayer stood, smiling at the tall man. The stranger AKA the Skinartist bled from his nose. He stalked to Niedermayer and punched at him-at him because Niedermayer dodged. He took part of the punch on his shoulder. The Skinartist  didn’t dodge his punch. He staggered back and Niedermayer held up a hand. Niedermayer backed one step. “There!” Backstrom said. “Right there!”

“What?” Almond said.

“He stepped back. He isn’t continuing the fight.”

“The Skinartist will,” Moto said.

Indeed, the Skinartist plunged into Niedermayer, sending him into a table. The Skinartist grabbed a knife and jammed it into Niedermayer’s shoulder. Niedermayer obviously yelled and yanked away, again stepping back. He called out. “Is he saying he’s police?” Backstrom asked. “Paquet, where’s the sound?”

“I haven’t gotten that yet. It’s not that easy.”

“I hoped he identified himself,” Almond said. “I don’t like the look on his face.”

“Niedermayer is creepy,” Moto said.

“The Skinartist knows what he is,” Gravely said. “And he’s in a fight. He’s just adrenaline high.”

“That’s not adrenaline.” Backstrom shook his head. “That’s something else.”  _He's angry. Cold, nasty angry._

Blood began seeping through Niedermayer’s shirt. The Skinartist punched him in the stomach and Niedermayer threw out a hand, grabbing the Skinartist by the elbow and spinning him around. A weird smile curved Niedermayer’s lips. He punched the Skinartist in the back, sending the Skinartist jolting forward. The Skinartist caught himself. He yelled something and again spun to tackle Niedermayer. As he hit Niedermayer, cutting his arm, Niedermayer bent and caught him, slamming him onto the floor. Again, he stepped back, watching the Skinartist as the man scrambled up. Backstrom twitched as he saw himself appear on the film. “OK, stop there. So what, three times of him backing up?”

“Yes,” Gravely said. “And if he ID’d himself, he’s good to go.”

“Paquet, we need sound.”

“I’ll get it,” Paquet assured him.

“Get some rest,” Backstrom ordered his weary team. “He should be awake soon.”

The next day, they knew something was wrong. Niedermayer’s cuts had been serious but not life threatening yet Niedermayer didn’t wake. The team took turns between the bedside and the station.  When Valentine saw Paquet, looking exhausted and strained, he hugged her and she leaned on him.

“I talk to him,” Paquet said. She touched Niedermayer’s hand. “I don’t know how to bring him back. And maybe he does not want to come back.”

Valentine jerked. “What?! Why wouldn’t he?”

“It is hard. He cares so much for different things. And when you are constantly outshone, it must hurt. Backstrom is incredibly talented and sometimes it’s hard to always be in his shadow.” Paquet inhaled, rapped Niedermayer’s hand. “I know it bothers him at time. He just tries too hard.”

“Backstrom? He’d switch places with anyone on the team any day.”

Paquet shook her head. “Would he? He has beautiful women who throw themselves at him and has gifts Peter would die for. He inspires loyalty and friendship. And he has you.”

“I’m his brother.” Valentine sat down, grasped Peter’s limp hand. “And what gifts? To be a drunken jerk?”

“He understands people, has an uncanny gift. He is artistic, creative. Niedermayer understands people but not on the level Backstrom does. In other words, Backstrom is a star.” Paquet touched Valentine’s shoulder. “I don’t know what you feel for him, if anything beyond friendship. Just...be kind to him. Please.” She looked at Niedermayer. 

“Why did you break up?”

Paquet exhaled. “Peter is kind, sweet, gentle. It still wasn't enough. I just wasn’t as drawn as I should be. I don’t think he was either but I know I hurt him. I wanted something more. Passion, perhaps, not mere romance. Maybe I like the bad boy part of men a little too much.  I didn’t see Peter as a passionate man and who does not want passion? ”

Valentine groaned. “I am so not a romance guy.”

Paquet laughed. “That is a lie. Beside, Peter would never demand anything.”

Valentine looked at Niedermayer. “Did the doctors say anything?”

“They just don’t know.” Paquet frowned. “He talks a little but won’t wake.”

“OK. I’ll talk to him.”

He honestly didn’t know what to do. Thrilled to have caught Peter’s attention, terrified to realize Niedermayer loved him. _I’m broken, scarred. I don’t do love. Why do you love me? Is it because you’re broken now, too?_ But the photos on the phone were from before the Skinartist.

“Nadia?”

“Yes?” She turned around.

“Did he mention me before? I mean, before we were captured…”

Paquet smiled. “He has watched you as long as he has known you.”

Valentine flushed but smiled back.

At the station, Backstrom stood in front of the chief. “How’s Niedermayer?” she asked.

“Unconscious,” Backstrom said. “No one knows why he won’t wake.”

“Mr. Reed…”

“The Skinartist?”

The chief eyeballed him. “Mr. Reed. He is claiming the disturbance at the bar is a domestic dispute.”

Backstrom stared at her. “What?”

“Mr. Reed is stating he and Sergeant Niedermayer had an intimate relationship and they were meeting to talk about their breakup.”

“WHAT?” Backstrom shouted. “Niedermayer never had a relationship with Reed!”

“Backstrom, calm down. Are you sure that Niedermayer never dated this man?”

  
“Niedermayer only met him when he was kidnapped and tortured. No, they didn’t date!”

“He said he only carved the flowers at Niedermayer’s request.”

Backstrom felt his head throb. “Niedermayer **never** dated that psycho. Niedermayer barely dates. And yes, he would have told us. He never shuts up.”

“Are you telling me he tells you his love life?” the chief asked.

Backstrom didn’t dare let her know he hadn’t known Niedermayer loved Valentine. “It isn't hard. Niedermayer’s love life is barely a footnote. He’s involved with a man now.”

“So he _could_ have been involved with Reed?”

“No! Niedermayer was his victim!”

“Mr. Reed says no.”

“And we believe serial killers now?”

“I am just checking this out. Make sure the sergeant never had a relationship with Reed.”

Backstrom stormed out the door, so furious he could barely see. Gravely immediately joined him. “Not now, Gravely.”

“What’s wrong?!”

“That psycho is claiming Niedermayer was his boyfriend.”

“What? That’s insane! Niedermayer loves Valentine!”

“Don’t let Reed know that. He’s claiming this is some fight between exes. I should have let Niedermayer kill him!” He grabbed his phone, dialed Valentine.

“Yes?”

“You at the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

  
“Is he awake?”

“No.”

“Wake him.”

“Just how do I do that?”

“Kiss him, slap him, screw him awake, I don’t care.”

Gravely still stood by his side when he finished. “I’m going home,” he said, not bothering to disguise his rage. “I’ll be back soon enough. Have Paquet rip apart Reed’s past. Financials, life history, whatever it takes.”

“I’ll tell the others,” she said, eyes hard. "He is not getting away with this."

Backstrom had Moto drive him home where Valentine stalked to him. “Really?” he snarled. “You wanted me to assault him? What is wrong with you?”

“I want him awake!”

“So do I but I am not raping him!”

“Well, you better get used to him being raped all over because the Skinartist is claiming they were lovers and this is a relationship gone bad.”

Valentine stilled. “He said what?”

  
“The Skinartist says they were lovers.”

“That’s insane! We were kidnapped and he was tortured How does he explain the scars and burning?”

Backstrom inhaled. “He says Niedermayer asked for it.”

Valentine’s breathing increased, fists clenching. “That is such bullshit!”

“I know.”

“So what do we do? You can’t hand Peter over to him!”

“No one is handing him over. The problem is Niedermayer never admitted he was raped. So now all that bastard has to do is claim Niedermayer’s lying and we’re stuck.”

Valentine glared at him. “He’s a man. He’s a cop. He was tortured. Women rarely admit they’re raped. Do you think he was willingly going to admit it?”

Backstrom walked to the fridge, pulled out some cold Chinese food. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Niedermayer omitted facts from his statement.” He began eating.

“He was raped! Do you think you’d admit that to your boss and teammates?”

“You,” Backstrom said, pointing with his fork. “Are you sure he was raped?”

“Are you asking if I watched? Yes, I know he was raped and assaulted. You don't mistake that. How many times, I never asked. It happened in another room, remember?”

“Did he actually tell you he was raped?” Backstrom demanded.

Valentine rolled his eyes. “We really don’t talk about it, you know. But if it helps, then yes, he told me.”

“Don’t lie about it--that’s what caused this problem!”

“Look, that man saved me, did whatever he could so I wouldn’t be hurt. If that means lying, so what?” Valentine drew himself up.

“It means something to him. Besides, you were concussed and don’t remember a lot. That’s a problem. Tell me the truth--did he ever tell you he was raped?!”

Valentine huffed then suddenly turned thoughtful. “After you told him he was raped, he and I talked. I told him I never mentioned it and he said he knew that I hadn’t said anything, he just wasn’t happy you had guessed. After all, he didn’t want to be known or treated as a rape victim. I told him it wasn’t his fault and he said ‘I don’t blame myself for being raped. I do blame myself for not seeing the danger ahead of time.’”

Backstrom slowly nodded. “That’s something--at least he admitted it. “

“You can’t let them do this. “

“Well, then , he better wake up. I have no intention of letting the Skinartist free.”

“Niedermayer talks,” Valentine said. “It’s creepy but he sometimes talks.”

“Great.” Backstrom rubbed his head. Valentine grabbed his phone as it buzzed.

“Hello? Yes, that’s me. What? No, no! Do not let him see him. I’ll be right there.” Valentine hung up. “Blue is at the hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. As next of kin, you and I get to allow who sees Niedermayer or not.” Backstrom started coughing.

“Next of kin?! How are we next of kin?”

Valentine rolled his eyes. “How do I know? You and I are listed as next of kin per Niedermayer.”

“Why not his family?” Backstrom asked as he grabbed his coat.

“He has none,” Valentine absently said. “He has no siblings and his parents died when he was 16.” They headed to the car.

“How do you know all this?” Backstrom asked.

“We actually talk. I listen to him. Try it sometime.”

“Just drive.”


	17. Chapter 17

Niedermayer drifted. Colors flooded and he liked it here. Yet the voices called. He listened, filed away the voices and the questions, and allowed the colors to keep wrapping him. He wondered if he’d gain wings, like a butterfly. The voices talked and he listened, tried to touch them as the voices became colors. He even replied now and then but always returned to the colors. In the colors, he felt safe.

He recognized all the voices, tried to answer their questions. No one seemed to respond, to understand. When Valentine talked to him, he tried extra hard to reply, gave form to broken words. When he dragged himself towards the voices, dripping colors like water, he opened his eyes to blackness.

Dim machine lights blinked. He sat up groggily, heard feet running and calls. They weren’t for him--he knew that instinctively. Slowly, carefully he inched out of bed, removings IVs and all tubes while he did so. He stumbled as his feet hit the floor but he grabbed the bed and straightened up, albeit with a gasp of pain.

He staggered to the closet, disappointed to find it empty save for a robe. He pulled on the robe and gratefully tied it shut. No phone, no id. Then he shuffled out into the hallway. Deserted save for a few empty chairs, he fumbled his way to the elevator and finally found his way downstairs. He listened to the clatter of staff, all busy as ambulances started arriving. He shuddered at the cold but he looked around, trying to shake the heavy veil of drugs he knew he was under. Perhaps he could walk home--although his bare feet cringed at the thought.  Through the windows, he watched the ambulances pull in and wondered again if he could walk home. He was never fond of hospitals although he understood them. Perhaps the colors could lead him home. He began drifting around the hospital.

It took wandering around the hospital and a nurse telling him to return to his room to make him realize he was bitterly cold and still not coherent enough to really figure out where he was. He shook his head. He was thirsty. Maybe a coffee…

Backstrom stiffened as Blue approached him at the hospital. “Hello, son.”

“Don’t call me that. What do you want?”

“I’m actually here to talk to your man.”

“The hell you will.”

“Look, Everett, I need to see him. Pete and I got along fine when we met.”

“Newsflash, he’s unconscious. And you don’t go near him or any of my people without my permission. And get along well? You played him.”

“Still unconscious?”

“Yeah, he heard you were coming. Now get lost.”

A nurse hurried his way, looking harried. “Lieutenant, may I speak to you?” she asked.

Backstrom walked to her. “What?”

“Sergeant Niedermayer is--well, not in his room.”

“What?”

“He’s gone--we’re sure he’s fine but we just need to find him.”

“Are you saying you lost him?!” Backstrom’s voice echoed.

“Sir, we have a huge multi car accident and apparently he wandered off.”

“Wandered off? He was unconscious!”

“Well…” Her fingers clenched. “I’m sorry.”

“God damn it.”

“If it helps, he certainly couldn’t have gotten far.”

“How would you know?”

Backstrom hastily called Valentine. “Where are you?”

“Getting coffee. Why? Is Daddy dearest gone?”

“Niedermayer is wandering around. If Blue catches him, who knows what he'll do?"

“What? He’s awake?” Valentine couldn't hide his excitement.

“Or a zombie--which I wouldn’t place past him. The hospital thinks he’s in the building.”

Valentine knew the hospital pretty well by now and he began by starting at the lobby. He walked fairly quickly, detouring only for a cup of coffee. He grabbed a cup, poured it, and then whirled as someone shuffled to him. “Stars,” a hoarse voice said. “Coffee, stars.”

Gregory Valentine bit his tongue to keep from crying. Disheveled, draped in a thin robe and barefoot, with a sheen in his eyes that showed he wasn’t quite cognizant, Peter Niedermayer stood.  “Hey, you,” Valentine choked out.

“Val.” Niedermayer's eyes glowed with emotion.

Valentine gave in, hugged him gently. Peter hugged him back tightly. “You should be in your room.”

“Home. Need clothes. shower.” 

“Sorry, gorgeous, not for a few days.” Niedermayer gave him a look, then started for the front door.

“Home.”

“Great, he doesn’t understand a word,” Valentine mumbled. Niedermayer gave him an exasperated look.

“Home.”

“Hold on,” Valentine said as he called Backstrom. “Hey, I found him but he wants to go home. Well, you come argue with him. In the cafeteria.” He hung up. “Niedermayer, wait.”

“Home. Shower. Clothes. Coffee, stars, Val,” Niedermayer said, still raspy. Valentine studied him.

“You heard me when I talked to you.” Niedermayer nodded, eyes shining. “So now you want coffee and to go stargazing?” Valentine didn’t know whether to be horrified or thrilled. Actually, when Niedermayer mumbled about getting coffee and stargazing, Valentine had simply agreed with the unconscious but rambling man. He hadn't expected Peter to remember.

A huge smile lit Niedermayer’s face. “Yes. Let’s go.” The words, still harsh sounding, seemed to flow easier.

“While I love the enthusiasm, we need to see Backstrom.”

“Then go home.” Valentine shook his head.

“I have to find out what meds you are on. Do you want a cup of coffee?’

“Yes.” At least that was clear.

Valentine bought him a cup of coffee and Niedermayer sipped it carefully. “Are you feeling OK?” Valentine asked.

“Side hurts. Head fuzzy. Cold. I miss the colors. I can go home.”

“You are starting to get repetitive, Niedermayer. What colors?"

"Colors. They are everywhere." He gestured and then touched Valentine's cheek. "Heard you."

Valentine smiled.

Backstrom mentally sighed with relief seeing Niedermayer standing with Valentine although he wasn't thrilled to see Niedermayer touching Valentine's face and staring at him with a sick, adoring look. "How did I miss that?" he muttered. He would never admit it but he missed the man. Niedermayer looked at him. “Backstrom.” He smiled again, a wide, happy smile Backstrom realized he hadn't seen in a while. “I need clothes, shower.”

“Well, you can shower in your room if the docs let you.”

“Home,” Niedermayer insisted. His smile suddenly faded and his brow crinkled. “Blue?”

“Old man, I told you to leave,” Backstrom ordered.

“Come on, Sergeant, I’ll take you home,” Blue said.

“No!” Backstrom stepped in front of Niedermayer. Niedermayer blinked.

“Who is this?” Valentine asked.

“Blue,” Niedermayer and Backstrom chorused. Valentine frowned.

“Sergeant…” Blue started.

“No. Thank you for the offer but no.” Niedermayer shook his head as if trying to clear it.

“OK, let’s go,” Valentine ordered.

“Who are you?” Blue inquired.

“Not your business,” Backstrom growled. To everyone’s surprise, Niedermayer gently laid a hand on Backstrom’s shoulder.

“Let’s go back. Questions, ask Lieutenant Backstrom.” Backstrom led him back to his room.

In Niedermayer’s room, two doctors waited. “So we went wandering, did we?” the doctor asked.

“I WANDERED lonely as a cloud  
         That floats on high o'er vales and hills,  
         When all at once I saw a crowd,  
         A host, of golden daffodils;  
         Beside the lake, beneath the trees,  
         Fluttering and dancing in the breeze…” Niedermayer started. The doctors looked at him in bemusement.

Valentine smiled. “Welcome back, Peter,” he said softly, voice shaking. Niedermayer looked at him with clear, bright eyes, lifted a hand.

“Hello, Val. I missed you, too.”

“What is he babbling about?” Backstrom asked.

“Wordsworth,” Valentine replied with a wise grin.

“I want to go home,”  Niedermayer said to the doctors.

“Well, let’s just get you checked out now,” the male doctor said.

“You know, I’m not a child,” Niedermayer dryly said.

“We’ll give you some mild sedation,” the female doctor said,

“No! No more medication. I have rested enough.”

“Hmm, belligerent Niedermayer is interesting. Plus quotes poetry.” Valentine exhaled. “Niedermayer, I can get you clothes from your place.”

“Thank you,” Niedermayer said gratefully.


	18. Chapter 18

 Valentine happily spent time roaming Niedermayer’s apartment. He packed a few toiletries and clothes, smirking over the silk briefs he found. He also returned to the gun safe, opened it, and studied the guns and safe. He gingerly removed the guns and checked the safe. He removed the lining. Cash. Quite a bit of cash and yes, a false ID plus two old books. He glanced at the books, the ID which was actually expired, then put the lining back and put away the guns. _What is he thinking? Where is--or was-- he planning to run to?_

When Valentine returned to the hospital, he found a newly clean Niedermayer staring at the wall. “Hey,” he said quietly. Niedermayer smiled at him, but sadness clung to his eyes. Absurdly, Valentine wished he could erase that sadness, make him smile that happy smile that lit rooms. “Are you all right, Peter?”

“Thank you,” Niedermayer said, deflecting the question.

“Want your clothes?”

“Yes. You are incredible.” Niedermayer took the clothes and headed for the bathroom.

“Really? You’re that shy? You modeled nude, you know.”

“I modeled my back.” Niedermayer disappeared and when he reappeared, he was dressed. “Let’s go,” he said.

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

Valentine grinned. “Em, my first hospital break.” He studied Niedermayer and his fresh shaven face. “Come here.” He kissed him hard and long. Niedermayer clung to him, kissing back. “Don’t **ever** do this again.”

“Kiss you?”

“No. No more being a hero.” Valentine swallowed. “Please.”

Niedermayer smiled. Then he kissed Valentine again, soft, gentle, and yet, Valentine wondered how anyone could think of Niedermayer of passionless. He sensed deep wells in Peter. He pushed, just a little, pressed harder and Peter pulled him close, fingers tightening. It was Valentine who broke the kiss. “Wait,” he rasped. Terrified, Niedermayer stepped back.

“Sorry! I am so sorry.”

“For what?” Valentine lightly smacked Niedermayer's shoulder. “Wow. Just--I don’t really want a quickie here. I want to take my time.” Niedermayer smiled shyly.

“We should go.”

“OK.” They slipped down the hall. Valentine drove Niedermayer home and wasn’t surprised to find Niedermayer wavering with exhaustion. Valentine rolled his eyes but helped Niedermayer into bed with only a sweet kiss on the lips. When Niedermayer crashed, he called Backstrom.

When Niedermayer woke, he found himself alone again. Until he heard snoring. He stumbled up, looked around. Backstrom slept on his couch. He found his phone on the coffee table. He looked at him, crinkling his brow at several calls he didn’t recognize. He turned as his door opened and the smell of greek food wafted to him. “Hey, you’re awake.” Valentine brought in food.

“Hey, Valentine.”

“You should be resting. Sorry about freeloading but the doctor said you needed watching for a day or two. Or you had to go back at the hospital. And since Backstrom said I can’t be alone with you, he tagged along.”

“Is this because I bought a case of his favorite beer?”

“Yes,” Backstrom muttered from the couch.

“We’re also fumigating,” Valentine said. “And you have wifi and a big screen TV.”

Niedermayer grinned then gave an involuntary yelp as he turned wrong. “Sit down,” Valentine said.

“I can cook, you know.” Niedermayer sat down.

“Great. You’ll make a lovely wife.” Backstrom grabbed a gyro. Niedermayer turned as the phone rang. “Leave it,” Backstrom ordered. “It’s just Blue.”

“What does he want?”

“To fool us again. No.”

Niedermayer nodded. “I can be back to work…”

“A week,” Valentine said. “The only reason you’re functional is the miracle of painkillers.”

“Dr. Deb will check you out,” Backstrom added. "He needs to release you."

“What does Blue want?”

“Nothing,” Backstrom snarled.

Niedermayer rolled his shoulders, winced. He ate, feeling both awkward and happy with his company. “How long was I out?” he asked.

“Three days,” Backstrom said. “Doctors couldn’t figure out what was going on especially because you did talk. Even unconscious, you didn’t shut up.”

“Not seeing doesn’t equal dying,” Niedermayer blurted.

“What?” Valentine said.

“The colors talked to me.”

“Just what did you dream?” Backstrom asked.

“The colors.”

“Umm, modern pharmaceuticals and peyote.” Valentine tapped Niedermayer’s hand. “Stop mixing.”

Niedermayer looked startled. “I’m not.”

“Look, just eat. I’ll yell at you later for being a cowboy. And the team wants to see you. You brought in the Skinartist. But we need to talk.”

Niedermayer tensed. His gaze flicked to Valentine. “What?”

“The Skinartist. His name is Jeff Reed.” Niedermayer now focused on Backstrom, shoulders relaxing. Backstrom sighed. “He’s claiming you two had a relationship.”

NIedermayer tilted his head. “Relationship?” he repeated.

“You two had a fling.” Backstrom gulped a soda.

“What?” Niedermayer asked. “As in we were intimate?” His eyes rounded.

“Yes.”

“You believe that?”

“Of course not!” Backstrom pushed food at Niedermayer.  “He’s pushing for something. If he muddies the water, he’s got a chance. You have to tell the chief you didn’t date him.”

“Fine.”

“And that you’re involved with a guy.”

“Oh my god.” Valentine covered his eyes as Niedermayer looked bewildered.

“May I ask why my romantic life is being discussed?” Niedermayer nibbled a pita chip.

“Because the Skinartist claimed you and he are exes. I told the chief that you told everyone your love life and we would have heard about the Skinartist long before this if you were dating.”

Niedermayer flushed. “All right,” he said softly. “Did you tell her who I'm dating?”

“No but everyone knows you love Valentine.”

“Oh.” Niedermayer studied his hands, breathed deeply. “Was I that obvious?”

“You should have told me,” Valentine said furiously.

“Why?” Niedermayer said, looking at him. “You aren’t interested in relationships.”

“Maybe because we’re supposed to be friends!”

“We are,” Niedermayer blurted. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated or awkward.”

“Too late for that,” Valentine interrupted. “I deserved to know. Especially before Backstrom finds out. I didn’t even think you were interested! Not that I blame you, I am gorgeous.”

“Agreed, “ Niedermayer said. “You’re gorgeous. I care for you, however, because of who you are, not because of your looks. ”

“You should have said something!”

“Enough you two,” Backstrom said in annoyance. “What you are is disgusting. Niedermayer, just tell the Chief what I said.”

Niedermayer exhaled. “So I tell the chief that I didn’t date the Skinartist. Got it.”

“And that you were raped.”

Niedermayer paled and coughed. “Sir…” He gave a sidelong look at Valentine.

“I _know_ , Niedermayer. Valentine knows.”

Niedermayer sighed. “I didn’t want you to know. I don’t want the station to know.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Valentine said quietly. He laid a hand on Niedermayer’s arm. Niedermayer looked at him, face softening, and Backstrom rolled his eyes, pushing down both jealousy and annoyance.

"How did I miss this?" he asked aloud.

“I know,” Niedermayer said, answering Valentine. “I just…” He twitched. “I’ve balanced the past but many people react poorly to victims of sexual assault.”

“Just tell her. And why didn’t you take your guns?” Backstrom demanded. Niedermayer ate some hummus and pita chips. Valentine and Backstrom watched him. “Niedermayer?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Niedermayer said.

“Try me,” Backstrom ordered.

“No, sir.”

“What?”

Niedermayer stood up, walked painfully to his window. “You wouldn’t understand,” he repeated. He turned haunted eyes to Backstrom and Valentine.

“Niedermayer, jesus,” Backstrom sighed. “He tore you up. I can listen, you know. You should have taken us into your confidence long ago. Perhaps you should work on trust issues.”

“I don’t understand either,” Valentine said. “You should have shot him.”

“I shouldn’t just kill him. And I knew--know the Skinartist. So I played him. If I took a gun, I would kill him. So I decided to let him take me. If he killed me, I knew he’d be put away for murder. Even if he attacked, he’d be taken. Everyone would be safe.”

“Except you,” Valentine said quietly. “You matter, you know.”

Niedermayer nodded. “So I’ve been told. And yes, I know I matter. But this was mine, my case. I knew the risk.” He looked back out the window. Valentine and Backstrom looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Backstrom jerked his head at Valentine and Valentine finally got up, laid a hand on Niedermayer’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear. Niedermayer turned to him.

“'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'”

“What?” Backstrom asked.

“I don’t know,” Valentine said in puzzlement.

“Hmm, quotes you don’t know,” Niedermayer smiled.

“This is going to kill me,” Backstrom groaned. “Just have sex when I am not around.”

“That’s not your business,” Valentine snapped as Niedermayer twitched.

Late at night, Backstrom woke up to Niedermayer sitting by the window. “You in pain?” Niedermayer shook his head, looking at him with dark eyes.

“How did you know what I was planning?”

“I figured it out.”

“But you had to follow something.”

Backstrom bit back a comment, deciding to probe a little. “We searched your apartment. I figured it out. What’s the real reason you didn’t take your gun?”

Niedermayer clenched his hands. “I wanted to kill him. I shouldn’t have.”

“Niedermayer, he raped and tortured you.” Niedermayer flinched.

“I was there.”

“Tell me.” Backstrom sat up.

Niedermayer swallowed hard, looked out the window. “ I’d do it again if it meant…” He looked towards where Valentine slept. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You allowed yourself, pushed yourself to be raped and carved just so Valentine wouldn’t be touched. That _matters_."

“Just so you know, I’m not expecting anything.”  The man gave a tiny smile.  “No chains.”

“Fair warning. I’ll break you if you hurt him. He is my brother.” Backstrom stared at Niedermayer. Whatever he looked like, Niedermayer looked away, gulped, and nodded.

“I know. I never want to hurt him.”

“Good. Then we’re clear.” Backstrom exhaled, leaning back. ”What if the Skinartist hadn’t attacked you?” Niedermayer looked at him. “Wouldn’t your karma bite you back if you killed him?”

“First, I knew he'd attack. And, I can do what I want, Backstrom, as long as I’m prepared to pay the price karmatically. And yes, killing him would not be good for me, physically, mentally, or spiritually.” He frowned. “It isn’t good for me now even without killing him. You brought me back to myself, thank you. l need to meditate.”

“For Valentine you would have done it.” Backstrom shook his head. “Have to admit you hide things well. A lot better than I expected.”

“Practice.”

Backstrom cocked his head. “We have videos of the fight. You have a temper.”  _And you are one cold, angry bastard when you get going._

Niedermayer nodded and stood up, poured a glass of whiskey, and sipped it. The scent of good Scotch filled the air. “I had to learn to understand and control all my emotions. That is what sent me off on my travels. Want one?” He held up the glass.

“Shouldn’t that be tea?”

“It usually is. I’m allowed to drink, you know.”

“Nie--Peter---” Backstrom tried to bridge the chasm between them, between this man he knew yet barely understood. “You don’t want to be like me. I don’t want to be me. Just be Niedermayer.”

“Your path is hard. I want to help.” The earnestness made Backstrom both want to sneer and cry.

“You do,” he admitted. Gratitude filled Niedermayer’s face. “What did you mean--Not seeing doesn’t mean dying?”

“Just because you don’t see something doesn’t mean you’re dying.” Backstrom frowned thoughtfully. “Sir, let me help.”

“You have. Get some rest, Niedermayer.”

Niedermayer nodded. “I do love him, you know.”

“You poor moron.”


	19. Chapter 19

The next day Niedermayer went to see the chief. She immediately took him into her office. “Mr. Reed,” she started.

“The Skinartist?” Niedermayer asked. “Yes?”

“He said you had a relationship.” She pushed back her dark hair, stared at him intently.

“He kidnapped and tortured me,” Niedermayer said. “I’m recovered fully but that was the only "relationship" we had.”

“You didn’t date?”

  
Niedermayer shook his head. “No. Surprisingly, abuse isn’t attractive to me.”

The chief shot him a warning look. Niedermayer smiled. As part of his affability, he got along well with pretty much everyone in every circumstance but he didn’t dare push the chief.  She obviously wanted to know what had happened. Niedermayer calmly, briefly explained the situation and that he had tracked the Skinartist.The chief glared at him, “Sergeant, you sound much like Backstrom. I have one. I don’t need another.”

Niedermayer nodded, abashed. “Yes, ma’am, I know. But I knew I could find him. This was our case.”

“A case you can’t be part of, not in an official capacity.”

“I know.” Niedermayer smiled wider.

“I understand things happened you didn’t report.” Niedermayer cringed internally. Deftly, he hinted at his abuse, never diving into detail. The chief nodded. “Thank you. Does Backstrom know?”

“Yes, ma’am.” NIedermayer’s voice came out as an almost whisper.

“All right. Thank you, Sergeant. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I’m fine. I have received help.”

“Good.”

"I need to talk to Mr. Reed. I think I can get information from him."

The chief studied him. "Are you willing to do that?"

"Of course."

"Be here tomorrow at 8 AM. Talk to the attorney. And speak to Sheriff Backstrom."

"Ma'am?" 

"Call him, Sergeant."

"All right."

She dismissed him. He headed for his desk, side throbbing.

“Pete!” a voice called.

He turned. “Sheriff Backstrom,” he said coolly.  _Already?!_

“You haven’t returned my calls.’

“I was in the hospital,” Niedermayer said. “How can I help you, sir?”

“The man you caught.”

Niedermayer inhaled. “The one the team caught. Yes?”

“I need him.”

“No, sir.”

“It’s not what you think. Two young people are missing from near the reservation. He claims he knows where they are. If you drop charges, let him go, he’ll free them.”

Niedermayer’s side and shoulder both spasmed. “What?” he demanded.

“Everett didn’t tell you?”

“You want to let him go?!”

Almond drifted by, then stopped. “Oh. no.” He walked to Backstrom’s office. “Backstrom, I thought you said Niedermayer was off for a week.”

“He is.”

:Well, he’s here and your father has cornered him.”

“Son of a bitch!” Backstrom stormed from his office.“Moto, go rescue Niedermayer.”

“Give him a minute,” Almond urged. “Something is going on.”

“Not let him go,” Blue said. “Use his information.”

“Have you any idea what that man is?!”

Blue held up his hands. “I know he attacked you. In any other circumstance, I’d say hang him high. But two lives are on the line.”

“No.” Niedermayer stared at Blue. “I can’t do that, sir.”

“You can--if you refuse to press charges…”

“With all due respect, there is no chance. He was seen publicly stabbing me. He is responsible for far more than you can imagine.”

“Those kids could die!”

“Let me guess, early 20s, two people, two men?”

“Man and woman,” Blue corrected. Niedermayer nodded.

“Understood. I’m sorry but no.”

“You could be killing them.”

“Sir, no. Just, no. I don’t have that power and even if I did, I couldn’t.”

Blue studied him, stepped closer. “Are you that willing to have have blood on your hands?” Niedermayer trembled once, controlled himself.

“No. But if that man is released, far more blood will be on my hands.” Images flashed through his head. At least 18 victims. Knife carving into flesh. The smell of burning hair and skin. Bitter cold bodies. The scent of rot.

“You have a few scars, son. I know. But…”

“Don’t!” Niedermayer’s voice dropped. Almond grabbed Gravely’s arm.

“Wait,” he advised. She gave him a dirty look.

Niedermayer had gone rigid. “I believed you once, sir. Not again. You made a fool of me. No, I made that mistake once.”

“Do you think I’m the kind of man who would betray you without a reason?”

Niedermayer controlled himself. “I think you’re the kind of man who would pistolwhip a ten year child. Sir.” He gazed at Blue. The older man took a step forward, clearly angry.

“Please hit him,” Backstrom breathed.

“What?” Gravely demanded.

“If he hits Niedermayer, I can book him for assault. It’d be like Christmas.”

“Well, Sergeant Niedermayer is really upsetting him,” Moto said.

“It’s his gift,” Backstrom muttered.

“There won’t be a deal,” Niedermayer continued. “You should find that couple, sir. I’ll help all I can but no, no release.”

“They could die.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Blue visibly controlled himself. “Does Everett know your past?”  The team all looked at Backstrom who tried to look knowledgable.

Niedermayer ground his teeth into the inner part of his cheek. “I’m sure he does,” he said in an even tone.

“Four people dead. By your hand.” All the team exchanged looks.

“We were attacked. I did what I had to.”

“Your captain said it was the bravest thing he ever saw. And then transferred you ASAP.”

Niedermayer nodded. “I know the details.”

“It takes a cold man to do that--or something he saw scared him to death.”

Niedermayer just gave him a sunny smile. “Fear is something all of us feel. Captain Hart thought my skills were best somewhere else.” He turned to leave. “Have a good day, Sheriff. You might want to start searching.” He walked down the hall, feeling sweat trickle down his back. His abdomen ached and had Gravely not appeared, he would have stumbled to his knees.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she scolded. “Fool.” She helped him to his desk. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to say hello. Had to talk to the chief.”

She nodded, hugged him quickly. “You look tired. You know, when you’re better, I’m kicking your butt.”

“Here.” Almond handed Niedermayer a coffee. The rich aroma filled his nostrils. “The conquering hero returns.” He squeezed Niedermayer’s shoulder. Paquet came over, hugged him tenderly.

“The stab victim, more like it,” Backstrom said as he came over. “What did Blue want?”

“He told me two people were missing. You never said…”

“No because that’s his job. What did he want?”

“To let the Skinartist loose in exchange for the location of the two.” Niedermayer clutched his coffee. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“You were unconscious,” Moto reminded.

“Your job, right now, is to recover,” Backstrom said in an oddly gentle tone. “Did you talk to the chief?”

“Yes, sir.” He sipped his coffee. “Could Paquet remove the snooping thing from my home computer?”

“Oops,” Paquet said. She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I’ll take it off now.”

“All right, let’s get back to work,” Backstrom said. “Except you, Niedermayer. Just rest.” A hand briefly touched Niedermayer’s shoulder then was gone. He looked up at Backstrom but the man had turned away.

Niedermayer felt warm for the first time in a long time. _If I had Valentine, it would be be a red letter day._

Paquet nudged Backstrom. “Your protege is out,” she murmured. Backstrom looked over. Niedermayer slept at his desk, head on his arms. Backstrom gave an irritated sigh but draped a coat over the dozing man. His team all smiled or smirked at him.

“What? He earned it.” Backstrom bristled.

“Nothing,” Almond said with a smile.

Niedermayer slept while the team worked. Valentine popped by with lunch and looked at the team in bafflement. “You could send him home,” he said to Backstrom.

“He’s like a stray cat, he’d keep coming back. Why are you here?”

“I brought lunch. I sold a piece that I legitimately got.”  He handed out food. “What’s with the FBI? I saw a few agents.”

“Possible serial killer, remember.” Paquet grabbed some eggrolls.

“Did you see a sheriff’s car around?” Gravely asked.

“Blue? He was creeping around earlier.” Valentine stirred sugar in coffee. “What’s he want?”

“Too much.” Backstrom looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk. “Gravely, why isn’t this done?”

“I told you, I’m not doing your reports.”

“I could wake up Niedermayer,” Backstrom said thoughtfully.

“No,” Gravely said. Valentine chortled and soon left after putting cookies by Niedermayer. He allowed himself a brief touch of Niedermayer's hand. 

Curious officers came by to check on the team as did the FBI. The team all talked to the FBI save the still sleeping Niedermayer. “I can’t believe he can sleep through this,” Paquet said.

“Painkillers,” Backstrom informed her. “Wonder drugs.”

Gravely gently shook Niedermayer’s shoulder until he lifted his head. “Go home, Peter,” she ordered. He yawned, nodded, and shuffled toward the door.

“You’re going to let hIm drive like that?” Backstrom asked.

“I’m fine,” Niedermayer mumbled, coming back to his desk for the cookies and his keys. He wandered towards the door.

“I’ll drive him home,” Almond said. In the car, Almond said, “You worried a lot of people.”

“Caught him.”

“And got a boatload of stitches in the process.”

“I was best choice.”

“We need you. If Backstrom doesn’t tell you, I will. You were stupid. It was a dumb move, Peter. Do you really think anyone cares if you’re gay?”

“Bisexual. That wasn't the issue."

“Your sexuality doesn’t matter! You need help because you were attacked. Get therapy, something.”

“I did.”

“Then get more and stop shutting us out. We’re supposed to be a unit.” Almond inhaled. “And you know we’ll protect Valentine too. Just get him into something legal.”

Niedermayer smiled sleepily. “I’ll try. Thank you.”

“Are you really all right?”

“The colors sing to me.”

Almond pursed his lips. “All right,” he said. “What do they sing?”

“All the colors. And they tell me things. Not seeing doesn’t equal dying.”

“OK, I’ll help you to your apartment.”

He left Niedermayer on his couch, sleeping again. Niedermayer woke hours later, tumbled onto the floor. He shook himself off. For the first time in days, his head seemed clear. He meditated, steadied himself and found some peace. Yes, he’d let his temper out but he hadn’t done anything horribly wrong. He loved someone--who probably didn’t love him in the same manner but he could try _(and would!)_ and he had friends. His boss actually saw him as useful. He looked at the time. 3:13 AM. Perhaps he could go for a drive. He dressed, wincing over his stitches, and decided to walk instead. He slipped his gun on, grabbed his wallet, phone and keys, and walked into the cool air.


	20. Chapter 20

Niedermayer ambled, not paying attention to where he walked. He loved to walk and run although he wouldn’t run yet with his stitched side. Sunlight, rain, darkness, he liked it. This felt wonderful, the air smelling of damp grass and wet foliage. Not surprisingly, he found himself near Backstrom’s place. He sat on a table in a nearby park, smiling to himself. Happiness flowed through him. “Peter?”

Niedermayer turned. “Hello, Val.” Valentine sat beside him on the table.

“Why are you here?” Valentine asked.

“I end up here a lot,” Niedermayer admitted.

“You? You were the one who drove around and haunted the neighborhood?” Valentine burst into laughter. “Someone I know saw you once.”

“I worried,” Niedermayer said, glad to hear Valentine laugh. Valentine grinned, shifting so they were back to back. Niedermayer relaxed, feeling Valentine’s muscles against his. He pressed close.

“Peter?”

“Um?”

“Can I ask you a few things?”

“Of course.” Niedermayer wondered if Valentine felt more comfortable not facing him. He understood that.

“Why me?”

Niedermayer gave a throaty chuckle. “You’re smart, tough, loyal, sexy.”

“And a thief, a liar.”

“So you’re a bit of a scoundrel.”

“Ass.” Niedermayer swore he could feel Valentine’s smile through his back muscles. “Do you still want to teach me to shoot?”

“Yes, if you still want to get up with me. Or go in the evenings.”

“Good. I like it.”

“I do, too.”

They sat together, back to back, silent but easy with each other. “Do you have nightmares?” Valentine asked finally.

Niedermayer nodded even though Valentine couldn’t see it.“Yes. Sometimes. It’s better now.”

“Even though you went all Backstrom?”

“Yes, even though I went ‘Backstrom’,” Niedermayer said. “It was, is, fascinating to do that, become one with a killer.”

He felt Valentine quiver although there was no breeze. “I guess,” Valentine said in an unconvinced tone. He cleared his throat. “Is that why you stopped smiling?”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s stupid.” He shifted weight as if to leave.

Niedermayer turned around, touched Valentine’s arm. “No, it’s not stupid. I just don’t understand. Please, talk to me. Trust me.” _Tell me!_ He tried not to beg. He just wanted to understand and be understood in turn. Valentine’s lips thinned and his face turned cold as he stood and fully faced him.

“You stopped smiling. You have this great, happy smile that shows you love the world, that you see it as beautiful, and then the smile became this sad mockery of what it was. And you shut down, just entered this little sphere where we--your friends--were just a little bit of it. So, yes, I’m pissed and furious and part of me wants to hate you for doing that, not just to us but to yourself. Why in hell would you want to be Backstrom? Or anyone? Sure, you have stupid ideas and crazy New Age beliefs but they make you happy. You see people as people, as complex beings instead of ‘the hooker’ or ‘the artist’ or ‘the thief’. You actually believe people can be good. Why would you want that changed?”

“I’m happy with myself most of the time,” Niedermayer said desperately, standing as well. He gestured with his hands. “But yes, I want Backstrom’s gifts and yours, too, at times. I get envious, too. I didn’t shut you or the others out because I wanted to but because I had to. I needed to do this alone. “ He stopped. “Or, I thought I did.”

“You’re an idiot.” Valentine wasn't joking, eyes stony. That instant, pain shot through him, worse than when he'd been stabbed, the joy all flooding out of him.  _I've bungled this. What a mess._

“I know.” He looked at the sky, ground, anywhere but the furious man in front of him. Fighting and confrontation came unnaturally to him--he debated, yes, but liked peace far more than war.

Valentine punched his unwounded shoulder and Niedermayer uttered a sharp cry of surprise, looking at him. “Don’t do that again!” Valentine snapped. “Ever! Friends and would be lovers don’t do such things! Promise me you won't do this again!”

“Promise!” Niedermayer stammered. Valentine studied him and finally stepped close. Slowly he wrapped his arms around Niedermayer, loose at first and then tight and hard until Niedermayer tucked him in so close, he could feel Valentine’s heart beat. He stroked Valentine’s soft hair.

“I’m sorry.”

Valentine could feel Niedermayer shaking and to his horror, wet drops fell on his hair. Just a few but enough to shake him to the core. Confident, happy Peter was crying for _him_. He couldn’t think of a time someone wept for him. He squeezed harder.

“Apology accepted,” he said in a thick voice.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I guess.”

“Want a coffee?”

Valentine pulled back and Niedermayer smiled, not the sunbright smile but certainly related to it. His eyes, suspiciously shiny, seemed happy and Valentine pulled his lips into a smile.

“Sure.”

When the sun rose, they sat at a coffee shop, needling each other over poets and quotes. Niedermayer drank tea and Valentine sipped coffee. The smell of coffee, sweets, and tea filled the air and people started coming in. “I should get some sleep,” Valentine finally said.

“I’ll walk you home. I need to go to the station anyway.”

  
“Aren’t you off duty?” Valentine pointed to Niedermayer’s wounded shoulder.

“I have a meeting. Because I was bad.”

Valentine laughed again. “Principal’s office?”

“That was yesterday. But I have a follow up meeting.”

“You need to rest.”

Niedermayer smiled. “I feel that’s all I’ve done.”

They walked towards the barge, carrying a coffee for Backstrom. Valentine turned, kissed Niedermayer, and slipped inside.  Backstrom shuffled around the barge. “You’re awfully late. Take me to work.”

“Of course. Serving you is my life’s goal,” Valentine retorted. “Do you want a coffee? I got one for you.”

“Thanks. You went to a coffee shop?”

“Niedermayer and I ran into each other. We talked, walked around.”

Backstrom sipped his coffee, eyebrow raised. In the car, he took a large gulp. “You went out for coffee,” he calmly said.

“I said that.”

“Niedermayer ask you for coffee?”

“Yes, so?”

“What did you talk about?”

Valentine gave him a look. “Shooting lessons. Poets. Nothing major. Why?”

“Does Niedermayer buy you breakfast when you shoot?”

“Yeah, most times. So what? He has a job.”

Backstrom snorted. “You say you don’t date.”

“I don’t.”

Backstrom laughed coarsely. “What do you think you’re doing, genius? He asks you out, buys food, you talk, you go for walks. You’ve been dating for _weeks_ , Valentine.”

“Dates have romance in them!”

“You get to handle a gun. That can be romantic. Plus, knowing Niedermayer, he quoted some poetry.”

“They’re not dates.” Valentine tried to keep the horror from his voice.

“You’re dating!”

“Arghh!” Valentine stopped the car at the station. “Backstrom, go to work.”

Backstrom laughed at him and headed inside.

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

When Valentine walked inside the barge, Niedermayer laughed, feeling strangely whole again. He stood in the rays of the rising sun, smiling and breathing in the cool morning air. He walked, almost danced, to his apartment, got his car. At the station, he went immediately to his desk. “What are you doing here?” came a voice. He smiled at Gravely.

“Good morning.”

“Hi,” she said. “Why are you here? And aren’t you cheery?” She sat down beside him.

“Why are any of us here?’

“Ouch, no philosophy this early. How are you?”

“Good.”

“Rest and get better.” She squeezed his hand.

“I’m feeling fine.” She looked at him. 

"You are, aren't you? Good for you."

"Cinnamon rolls in the break room."

"You are fantastic."

Niedermayer thought the interrogation room smelled of the dank sweat of the hundreds of people who’d sat there before, the scent of stress and fear. He sat and waited, glad to be back at work even in a 'volunteer' capacity. A tremor of anticipation ran through him. He sipped his bottle of water. The shuffle of footsteps made him turn his head. The Skinartist and his lawyer came into the room.

The Skinartist gazed at him. “Hello, Mr. Reed,” Niedermayer said.

“Sergeant Niedermayer,” Reed said. “You look well.”

“I am.”

“Why are you here?” the lawyer demanded. Niedermayer shook his hand.

“I’m Sergeant Niedermayer.”

“Why are you here?” the lawyer repeated. He wore an expensive, well cut suit. “I’m Anton Daniels.” He said his name as if Niedermayer should recognize it and bow. Niedermayer did recognize it but only in passing.

“I thought Mr. Reed and I could talk. “ The lawyer glared at him. Niedermayer smiled. “Would you like coffee? Water?”

“What do you want to know?” Daniels demanded.

“Well, I’d like to know about the relationship Mr. Reed and I shared. I was chained during it, so don’t be surprised that I know so little.”

“You agreed to everything,” Reed said. His dark hair hung over his brown eyes and he studied Niedermayer with a hungry look. “Why can’t we start over? It may have been a fling to you but to me…”

“We were never intimate.” Niedermayer drank his water. “Now the two you kidnapped…”

From the window, Backstrom watched. “He’s good,” Gravely said.

“He’s decent,” Backstrom said. “What he needs to do is get inside this man’s head. “

“He has been. That’s how he knew Reed would flip about the photo.”

In the room, Niedermayer kept talking. “Yes, you are correct, I was at the events you mentioned. But I was alone. If Mr. Reed showed up there, then stalking comes to mind.”

“You had a relationship,” Anton Daniels declared.

“Only as the victim. Bad enough I was kidnapped but for such poor art---that is the worst.”

“You weren’t anything until I made you. You begged for it!”

Niedermayer gave Reed a look of pity. “I understand that you think that. But seriously, I would go to an artist if I wanted a tattoo.”

Backstrom stepped into the room. “Sergeant, you’re needed.” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to waste your talents on this one.”

“Hey,” the lawyer exclaimed.

Niedermayer blinked. “Hey,” he murmured. Backstrom looked at him. “Just a moment!”

He hurried to the board, Backstrom following him. Paquet sat by it with Anders. “What?” she asked him.

“Niedermayer, you can’t be involved,” Anders said. “I have this.”

“Paquet, can I have what was found in Reed’s impounded car?” Niedermayer asked.

“You’re not involved!” Anders said.

“He is our forensic person,” Paquet said.

“He’s not allowed. I’m forensics on this case!”

“Shut up, Anders,” Backstrom said. “What do you have, Niedermayer?”

Almond left his desk, crowded close.

“Hay!” Niedermayer said. He grabbed the list Paquet handed him.  “It’s here!”

“What?” Almond asked as Gravely came over.

Niedermayer tapped the picture of the cow carcass. “It’s a Scottish Highland cow,” he said. “Rare breed.” He looked at Gravely, Backstrom, and Almond. “There’s only one breeder in the area, John Stephens, and that ranch is in probate. There’s only a caretaker to check the cattle once in awhile.”

“He’s right,” Paquet said, typing on the computer. Her face brightened.

“They’ve checked all the ranches, Niedermayer,” Gravely said. “Even that one.”

“His car.” Niedermayer shoved the report from Reed’s impounded car at her. She looked at it. “Hay!”

“Dirt, manure, and bits of hay.” Backstrom slapped Niedermayer’s shoulder. “Hay barn!”

“I bet they didn’t go through the hay,” Gravely said excitedly. “

“Get dogs out there, Gravely,” Backstrom ordered.

“It’s a chance,” Almond said.

“Let’s go.” Gravely halted Niedermayer. “No.”

“I can….”

“No. Wait here,” Gravely said. "You can't interfere."

Niedermayer looked at Backstrom.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

“Sir…”

“No.”

Anders looked triumphant. “I’ll be at the car.”

“You stay here, too,” Backstrom said. “Niedermayer is bad enough. He can’t go because he’s involved. But you aren’t going because you drive me crazier than he does.” He grabbed his poncho and left with Moto, Gravely, and Almond.

Niedermayer watched them go, looked at Paquet in frustration. “It should be me,” he said. Anders scowled at him.

“You’re a risk.”

“Shut up, Anders. Come on, Niedermayer.” Paquet took NIedermayer’s arm and they went to the break room.

At the quiet farm, the team searched. Backstrom began circling the house and barns. avoiding the shaggy cattle that watched him. He walked into the hay barn. The sweet smell of hay filled his lungs. He sneezed. “Great.”

An officer brought in a team of search dogs. Backstrom watched as the dogs began sniffing in the barn. Suddenly one dog then both began digging through hay bales. Officers moved hay bales until they uncovered a tiny door.

Backstrom pulled it open and a wave of hot air hit his face.  And then a whimper and yell. The dogs barked and Backstrom smiled.

On the way back to the station, Gravely and Backstrom exchanged triumphant grins. Gravely didn’t even complain when Backstrom lit a cigar. “It’s my turn to tell the suspect,” she said.

“Oh, no. Our psycho needs to have his heart broken by me. And I get to tell Blue.”

“No problem.” Gravely gave him a quick look. “So Niedermayer’s OK?”

“Should be.”

“Call him.”

Backstrom called the station. Paquet smiled and gave a thumbs up to Niedermayer. Niedermayer grinned. He headed home with a smile. He spent the rest of the day meditating cooking, preparing meals for the freezer and his lunches. As his supper cooked, he cleaned, opened a bottle of wine. As he took out the lasagna, he put the bread in the oven. He expected something. All his nerves tingled. Basil, oregano, onions--the kitchen came alive with odors and aromas. When a knock came, he wasn’t surprised. He opened the door. “Hello, Valentine.”

“I brought back your key.” Valentine looked _stunning_. Niedermayer stared and then finally blinked.

“Thank you. Come in.”

  
“I should be on my way,” Valentine said, a note of reluctance in his voice.

“Oh.” Niedermayer tried to hide the sharp disappointment. “Are you hungry?”

“Italian?”

“Lasagna.”

“Sounds good.” Valentine slipped in.  “It smells fantastic. Are you expecting someone?”

“No, just thought I’d treat myself.” He poured another glass of wine, handing it to Valentine. “I’m glad. I always have a lot of leftovers.”

They ate, talking pleasantly and enjoying themselves.

“This was great,” Valentine said as he finished. "Thank you."

“You are welcome. I did say I could cook. I’m no chef but I’m decent in the kitchen.”

“You made this?” Valentine’s eyes widened.

Niedermayer nodded. “Dessert too.”

Valentine gave him a sudden, suspicious look. “Is this like a _date_?”

“You don’t do dates, remember?” Niedermayer laughed. Valentine's shoulders relaxed.

“Keep cooking like this and I might,” Valentine said under his breath. In a normal tone, he said “Backstrom was right. You will be a great spouse.”

“That sounds like an offer.” Niedermayer lifted an eyebrow. Valentine did a double take and Niedermayer chuckled.He picked up their empty plates, put them in the dishwasher. When he turned, Valentine was there. 

Valentine made the first move, reaching up to touch Niedermayer’s cheek. They kissed, long and sweet and both trembled. Niedermayer wrapped his arms around Valentine, tugged him close, ignoring the brief flash of pain in his side. Valentine threaded his fingers through Niedermayer’s hair and a phone rang.

“You have to be kidding,” Valentine hissed. Niedermayer laughed softly into his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere, Val.”

Valentine grabbed the phone. “I’m busy,” he snapped.

“Get here. There’s a case that requires your touch. Now. Hurry!”

“Now?!”

“Now. And bring dinner.” Backstrom hung up.

Valentine looked into Niedermayer’s dark eyes. “I have to go,” he groaned.  To Valentine’s delight, Niedermayer wore a look of severe disappointment. Yet he nodded.

“All right. Take some dinner to Backstrom.”

Valentine kissed him again, feeling heat rise. “Sonofabitch,” he whispered.

“We have time.” Niedermayer cut up food, handed him it in containers. “Dessert, too.”

“He is such an asshat.”

“I could go with you,” Niedermayer suggested, hope in his voice.

“Let me call you on that.” Valentine kissed him quickly. “See you soon.”

“Is that a promise?” NIedermayer asked, only half teasing.

Valentine ran his fingers over Niedermayer’s face and lips, brushed his lips over Niedermayer’s neck. Niedermayer closed his eyes, embracing him. “Oh, yes, I promise,” Valentine purred.

“You better leave now. Or I won’t be able to help myself.” Niedermayer nuzzled his ear. Valentine kissed him again.

“Get some sleep.”

When Valentine returned home, he handed Backstrom his dinner. “Nice job cockblocking,” he snapped.

“Get over it. Italian?”

“Yes.” Valentine sulkily opened his dessert. “What is going on?”

“Case with stolen art goods. Where did you get Italian? Maria’s?

“Just eat.”

Backstrom began eating. “This is good. Bread?”

“In the other container.”

Backstrom ate while Valentine studied the dessert in surprise. “He can make tiramisu? God, yes.” Valentine began eating. “OK. tell me about the case.”

“Here.” Backstrom tossed him a packet of photos. “Stolen objects.” He finished the lasagna. “That was really good.”

“Tell Peter you liked it,” Valentine said absently.

“”What? Thanks, Valentine, he probably poisoned it!”

“He made it from scratch.”

“Hold it, were you with Niedermayer?”

“I was trying to be.” Valentine shot him a dirty look.

“That’s revolting,” Backstrom stated.

“So you say. If you had actually given me some time, it would have gotten much more disgusting for you. By the way, daddy dearest is still around. I saw the sheriff’s car as I left.”

“It is his job to harass people. Niedermayer all right?”

“Far better than all right. Or would have been if you wouldn’t have called me.”

“He’s still injured.”

“He certainly didn’t act injured. These are unusual--painted porcelain animals? Pretty but not worth a lot unless maybe as a collection. Why did you call me in?”

“Because you’re the thief. Who would want these? Someone went through a lot of security to get them.”

“Huh. That’s odd.” Valentine finished his dessert. “Are you eating yours?”

“Yes,” Backstrom snapped. “It’s tiramisu.”

“Niedermayer made it.”

“I don’t care if Attila the Hun made it. It’s mine.”

Valentine sat on the sofa, looking at the photos. “Are these from one place?”

“Yes.”

“I can check my sources, look for them.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s it? You called me in for that?”

“I was hungry and you were supposed to get dinner. I figured you’d found some pretty boy. I just didn’t think it’d be Niedermayer.”  Backstrom’s phone rang. He grabbed it and his dessert and walked away from Valentine. He listened, swore, shouted no, and hung up the phone. “I’m going to kill that man,” he snarled.

“Mmm. Daddy issues.”

“Yeah, well, he’s your father, too, brother.”

Valentine frowned. “Want to go out?” Maybe Backstrom needed a release. And Niedermayer was probably in bed, hopefully dreaming of him.

“No gay bars,” Backstrom warned, grabbing his coat.

“Fine.”


	22. Chapter 22

Backstrom spent the next day studying the photos of the victims. “Problem?” Almond asked.

“I’m trying to find the signature. We have him for attempted murder and kidnapping. I want to get him for these. No DNA traces--how do we connect him to all the crimes? We need his signature--every artist signs their work.”

“What does Niedermayer say? He was the one who studied this nut.”

“He doesn’t know,” Backstrom grunted. “Funny, only Niedermayer and White-the skinned victim-have that odd blue dye.” Backstrom and the team studied all the photos. Paquet tapped a photo.

“Do all of them have burns on their limbs?” she asked.

"Yes," Backstrom said. "Burned arm or leg."

"What is this?" Gravely asked. "The burn seems odd."

Backstrom turned. “You’re right,” he said, startled. “These burns are unusual.” He picked up his phone and called Niedermayer. “Are you at home?”

“Yes,” Niedermayer said, voice hesitant.

“I’m coming over.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Why, are you having a Tupperware party or is Valentine there?”

“Neither, I just didn’t expect company.”

“See you in a minute.” He hung up and noticing Gravely and the team watching. “Come on, Gravely, let’s figure this out.Almond, Paquet, keep looking.”

Instead of incense, the rich aroma of chocolate filled the Niedermayer’s apartment, billowed out when he opened the door and let him in. ‘You bake?” Backstrom asked. “You are such a girl.” Gravely elbowed him. "What?"

“Do you want of a brownie, Backstrom?” Niedermayer leaned against his counter.

“Sure.”

Niedermayer moved stiffly, slowly, dressed in a long sleeved T-shirt and jeans. The apartment seemed just as clean as before. “That bad?” Gravely asked.

“No more painkillers," Niedermayer said. "I'm OK."

“Why not?” Backstrom asked.

“I self medicate in other ways," he said. “Meditation, visualization.”

“Fine, then give me the vicodin.” Gravely frowned at Backstrom. “It was a joke.”

Niedermayer put down a platter of brownies. “What is going on? Coffee, tea, brownie?”

“Coffee, please.” Gravely sat. She wore a rich blue shirt that set her red hair off beautifully and Niedermayer watched her curiously. Backstrom grabbed a brownie, nibbled it delicately, then took a big bite. Niedermayer poured coffee for him and Gravely.

“You need to strip,” Backstrom said. Gravely’s sudden coughing didn’t quite cover Niedermayer’s inhale. “I mean your shirt, you perverts,” Backstrom said.

“May I ask why?” Niedermayer asked without a hint of sarcasm. 

“To tie Reed to all the murders. I think you have a pattern, his signature, on your skin. Probably your arm.” Niedermayer slowly nodded. He stood, pulled off his t-shirt carefully. The stitches across his ribs and shoulder stood out obscenely against his skin. Backstrom grasped Niedermayer’s left arm and then immediately released him as Niedermayer tensed. “Sorry,” Backstrom muttered.

“You surprised me.”

They all accepted the lie. Niedermayer held out his scarred left arm. Backstrom carefully touched the blemished flesh. The skin seemed almost melted, an odd spiral scar/burn. “How did he do this?” Backstrom asked.

“He used a knife. Carved a spiral cut around the arm and then cauterized it with the torch.”

Gravely stepped around and ran her fingers over the scars. Niedermayer twitched. “This is horrible,” she said. "Any nerve damage?"

“It’s healed.” Niedermayer ignored the question about nerve damage.

Backstrom took a few photos of the arm. “Do you know what that blue dye on your back is from?” he inquired.

“I believe it’s a paint/glaze mix. The glaze is one called by its color, cobalt blue. It's fairly common."

“We’re trying to find Reed’s signature. I wonder…” Gently Backstrom touched the arm again, trying to see it as mere flesh and not a person. He could feel the original cut deep under the burn. Niedermayer shuddered. “Hurt?”

“No,” Niedermayer said. “It’s just odd.”

Backstrom found where the burn ended and the cut continued, just a few inches. He felt the scar swirl. “Gravely, feel this.”

Gravely ran her fingers over the scar. “It’s a pattern. Very small but there.”

Niedermayer watched them, much like a patient watches doctors work on his or her injuries, twitching now and then. “A pattern?”

“Yes. Can you turn your arm?” Gravely asked.

Awkwardly, Niedermayer both lifted and twisted his arm. Backstrom hastily traced the scar pattern on a piece of paper while Gravely ran her fingers over it. “Do you have the photos of the other kills?” Backstrom asked.

“Of course.” Niedermayer walked to his computer, pulling on his shirt. “Here.”

He pulled up photos, stepped back, and Backstrom took over. Gravely pushed close. “This just may be it,” Backstrom said. Anticipation began thrumming through him

“There!” Gravely said. “On her leg. The burn but it may be the same cutting.”

“Yes!” Backstrom stood up and slapped Gravely’s shoulder. “That’s it. We have him!”

“Good job, sir,” Niedermayer said.

“Thanks,” Backstrom said. “Come on, let’s go.”

Gravely grabbed a brownie and headed for the door. Backstrom followed, looking over his shoulder. “Are you coming or not?” he demanded. Niedermayer grinned and hurried after them.

Agents Lyon and Gordon watched Backstrom saunter in. “We have the Skinartist and did your work,” Backstrom said, Gravely, Paquet, and Almond behind him . “We found the Skinartist’s signature.”

“There is no signature,” Gordon said.

“You just don’t know where to look. It's small but there.”

  
“We are tying Mr. Reed to the Skinartist murders. Once we connect him, it’s done.” Agent Lyon said.

“Then we did it. Take a look.”

Backstrom showed the photos, reviewed the work his team had done. He saw Agent Lyon’s pupils dilate and he smiled grimly. He pointed out the scars, the pattern on each corpse and the sense of excitement built. He felt Gravely beside him as well as Almond and Paquet. The FBI bent their heads close.

“Does Sergeant Niedermayer have this scar?” Gordon asked.

“Yes,” Backstrom said.

The chief soon joined them and the teams, FBI and Portland PD, exchanged work. Backstrom called for Niedermayer and Moto and the groups reviewed. Niedermayer allowed others to check the scar on his arm. "We will need to inspect this closer," Lyon said. "Pictures, doctor reports."

"All right," Niedermayer agreed.

"Great work," Gordon said, eyes shining.

"Just make sure you spell our names right," Backstrom declared. Te chief gave him a look but Backstrom made sure his team received proper credit and himself as well. "We did the work," Backstrom mumbled to the chief.

Hours later, the team headed out to celebrate that night. Munching pizza, chicken, and fries, they ignored the nearby sulky Lieutenant Jenkins and his robbery team. Jenkins sneered at Backstrom. “Must be nice to have FBI to cover your ass.”

“Shut up, Jenkins. You’re mad because we brought in the Skinartist,” Backstrom growled.

“Please. Your loser team--who wants them? A faggot, two darkies, two dykes, all led by a drunk.”

The team stiffened. “Did you just call me a dyke?” Gravely asked.

“Darkies?” Almond repeated.

“It’s another term for Negro with two g’s,” Backstrom snarled.

“So I am a lesbian?” Paquet said. “Why does he think I am a lesbian?”

“Because you won’t bed him,” Backstrom said.

“Ah.” Paquet said. “True. I’d happily sleep with a woman before him.” Everyone looked at her.

“And I’m the faggot, I assume?” Niedermayer asked.

“You know it,” Jenkins said. “You and your pretty boyfriend. Least I didn’t screw a serial killer.”

“Hey!” Moto exclaimed. He stood up.

“Cool it!” Backstrom ordered, nose to nose with Jenkins. “That’s right, I’m a drunk leading a team of two black men, two women, and a bisexual. Guess what? We still beat your all white male, straight revue.”

“You sleazy…”

“Backstrom?” a new voice sounded. Valentine deftly moved through the crowd. “Here you are.”

“Join us, Valentine,” Almond said. “Let it go, Lieutenant. Jenkins is just drunk and envious.”

“We have pizza,” Paquet tempted Valentine. “And mediocre wine.”

“All right. So what’s with the testosterone?” Valentine squeezed between Niedermayer and Paquet.

“It’s a masculine display of territory and aggression,” Niedermayer started.

“Shut up, Niedermayer,” Jenkins snarled. “Or that boy toy of yours may end up with Vice.”

“He’s my brother.” Backstrom’s voice dropped. “ _Off limits_. As is my team.”

Jenkins glared at him but backed down.  Niedermayer frowned at the smirking Valentine. The night drew on. Valentine ‘rescued’ Backstrom after the celebration became a party where most of the team looked like that party hit them hard. “Come on,” the younger man sighed. “Let’s go home.”

“Weren’t you with Niedermayer?” Backstrom slurred.

“No, he left, remember? He had to go home.”

“He should have stayed out with us.” Backstrom yawned.

“The doctor said he had to rest. He’s clear to work starting next week.” He helped Backstrom out of the car.

“Good. Anders is a bigger idiot than him.”

The next morning, with throbbing head and aching eyes, Backstrom headed to work with a hung over, cranky Moto. All the team bore similar signs of that party save Niedermayer, who while not ‘on duty’, happily flipped through files and paperwork. “Niedermayer?”

“Sir?”

“You’re like some sort of demon, Niedermayer, call your name and you appear,” Backstrom said.

Niedermayer grinned. ”That’s very astute, sir. Did you know many cultures hold that by calling…”

“Don’t care. Just do the paperwork, go home, and let me rest.” He sighed. “By the way, I told the FBI you weren’t interested,” Backstrom said. Niedermayer gaped at him. “I just got used to you,” Backstrom grumbled. Niedermayer smiled wider.

“Oh.” Niedermayer waited a moment, then  Backstrom turned to leave. “Sir?” Niedermayer said. Backstrom turned around. “If you want,” Niedermayer said hesitantly. “I have another lasagna. I can bring it over for you and Valentine.”

“No one is dating, Niedermayer,” Backstrom said.

“All right,” Niedermayer said amiably. “I just thought you may like it.”

“No. Thank you.”

“OK.”

Backstrom paused. “Did you make tiramisu?”

“Yes…” Niedermayer said.

“Deal. See you Saturday.“

Niedermayer smiled all the way home.

A few weeks later, sex sated Valentine laid in Niedermayer’s arms, reluctant to leave. Niedermayer gently kissed him. Valentine ran his fingers over his chest, touched the new scar in his shoulder. "Wow," he breathed. "That was--wow." Niedermayer nodded. Valentine touched the shoulder scar again. “You can always get a tattoo,” he said.

“Maybe.” Niedermayer breathed slowly, fingers skimming Valentine's skin.

“'You are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed',” Valentine quoted, looking into Peter's eyes. “A children’s book.”

“Yes.” Peter watched him.

“I liked it--for a child’s book. So you think you’re responsible for me?”

Peter laughed softly, lips curving. “Who said _I_ tamed _you_?”

Valentine grinned and listened to Peter’s heart. Incredible sex aside, he knew this would be slow. And that would be-mostly- his fault. Love hurt--one could look at the marks on Peter to see what obsession and love did. Yet, sometimes, when he watched the light change in Peter’s eyes, he wished he could give more.

“Val?”

“Hmm?”

“Stop worrying.”

Valentine smiled.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote Niedermayer and Valentine is discussing is from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. It is the discussion between the fox and the little prince.


	23. Epilogue

Epilogue:

Six months later:

Valentine swatted Niedermayer on the ass as the detective walked past him. Niedermayer spun and grabbed him, pulled him close for an embrace. “Looking good,” Valentine said, smiling at his lover.

“You too.” Niedermayer kissed him hard. “I have to get to work.”

“All right,” Valentine said. “I should get home anyway. Take care, babe.”

“Yes, Rory,” Niedermayer said playfully.

Playful, indeed, as they rarely teased each other with nicknames or names. Niedermayer was Peter, of course, but Valentine didn't like Gregory. So Niedermayer had come up with Rory and occasionally used it but Val was the norm. Marvelous sex and all, they’d spent long hours building up to where they were now. Valentine spent the night from time to time and Niedermayer trusted him enough to allow Valentine to hold him when he had nightmares. Love wasn't spoken, not yet. But Niedermayer cooked breakfast and Valentine moved a spare outfit or two to an empty drawer and even had an area set aside so he could draw, a hobby he told few about.  With Backstrom now on the wagon and done with Blue and the team confident with each other, Valentine and Niedermayer each secretly saw a future with each other. Maybe, just maybe, they could do this.

“Dinner tonight?” Niedermayer asked.

“Sure. Backstrom has a meeting and Amy’s taking him.”

Niedermayer’s eyes widened. “I thought she had said absolutely not. She said they’d never be together.”

“She did say that. She changed her mind.” Valentine pulled on his coat. “Drop me off?”

“Of course.”

Niedermayer drove him home and Valentine kissed Niedermayer as he slid out of the car. “Hey, Saturday night keep free,” he ordered.

“All right,” Niedermayer agreed.

“It’s important,” Valentine warned.   

“I’ll be there. Will Backstrom?”

“No, just me. Oh, and my mother. She wants to meet you. Thanks.” He kissed Niedermayer again and fled inside the barge.

“Wait--your mother?” Niedermayer called. “Val!” He shook his head as he heard the metal door slam and laughed. _The love of your life is keeping a secret from you._ “How about surprises? Well, I hope she likes Chinese food. Wish he'd tell me that big secret.”

He headed into work.


End file.
